Age of the King, page 53
part #6 of The Echoes Saga Series
Here and there, Warhogs crashed through, creating a bloody mess of everything and leaving a trail of destruction in their path. Doran started ushering the Namdhorians behind him, pushing them back beyond the dwarven forces in the hope of giving them a rest. It was hard to say how long any battle would go on for, but Doran knew well that a wave pattern worked best.
Hacking his way through one cluster of orcs, the son of Dorain laid eyes on his brother for the first time since they dismounted. The orcs were dropping in quick succession around Dakmund, a sight Doran was unaccustomed to. The reason for his prowess could be found in his brother’s hands.
Andaljor!
With a double-headed axe on one end and a war-hammer on the other, Dakmund was a foe to avoid. The prince of Grimwhal sliced one way before quickly twisting the weapon and crushing his opponents the other way. The axe would remove legs and the hammer would break the skulls.
Hearing his mother’s voice in his head, Doran fought his way to Dakmund’s side and joined his brother in battle. He killed less orcs watching Dakmund’s back, but for the sake of Grimwhal, he knew it was worth it.
Together, they reduced the number of orcs on the field and sent every one of them to Grarfath with Heavybelly on their lips. Doran could only hope that when their time was over on Verda’s green earth, he would be allowed to join his brother in the Hall of Honour and eat at Grarfath’s table.
“Havin’ fun, little brother?” Doran shouted over the melee.
Dakmund caved in the head of an orc, shattering its horns in the process. “I fear we didn’ bring enough,” he replied gravely, his assessment harrowingly accurate.
Before Doran could offer encouragement, an orc burst through a pair of Namdhorians and launched itself at him. Unlike its kin, this orc was painted from head to toe in black and yellow, its body devoid of any armour. It was a bloody stupid way to enter a battle in Doran’s opinion, but since he was currently pinned underneath the beast, he was unable to share it.
Dakmund turned to help him but quickly discovered a group of orcs had taken it upon themselves to kill him and only him, pushing him back.
The painted orc roared in Doran’s face, dripping hot saliva onto his face and beard. The son of Dorain growled, dropped his sword and heaved the orc off his body just enough to sock the beast in the jaw, ridding him of its weight.
The orc, unfortunately, was quick to recover and hounded Doran before he could get to his feet. It barrelled into him, sending them both rolling across the bloody field in a tangle of limbs and punching fists. The orc, berserk in its nature, came out of the wrestle on top and immediately gripped each side of Doran’s head.
What happened next was by far the most painful thing the son of Dorain had ever experienced.
He managed to displace the beast’s left hand, but its right hand squeezed, forcing its thumb into Doran’s left eye. The dwarf howled in pain and punched the orc relentlessly in the ribs. Ignorant to the beating, the orc maintained its hold of his head.
Doran’s mind was filled with nothing except rage, the pain driving him mad. The dwarf threw all of his strength into battering the orc’s arm away. Crouched over him now, the ranger reached up and snatched the orc’s head, pulling it down as he lifted his head. The creature’s nose broke against his forehead and it snapped its own head back, away from the source of the pain.
The son of Dorain, however, was holding onto the orc’s pointed ears, both of which were ripped from its head in the process. Doran pushed the beast away and scrambled to his feet. The double-blade axe felt good in his hands, though he couldn’t recall the moment he had retrieved it from his back.
Raised over his head, the axe came down on the centre of his foe’s skull, splitting its head into two sides right down to the neck.
His eye hurt like hell, though there was nothing left of it to call an eye anymore. Blood dripped down his cheek and stained his blond beard red. Were the battle not so dire, he would take his time and make every single orc suffer before he ended their miserable life. As it was, he had no choice but to rejoin his brother and return to cutting the orcs down with great efficiency.
“I see ye’ve been makin’ improvements!” Dakmund jibed, gesturing to Doran’s bloody socket.
Doran swung his two-handed axe and cleaved the head from another orc. “Ye find a good dwarven woman who doesn’ get weak at the knees seein’ a decent battle scar!”
Dakmund laughed as he hacked two more orcs to pieces.
The battle raged on in this fashion. They would slaughter orcs beside their kin and laugh whenever they could. It was in their bones to enjoy killing orcs and enjoy it they would.
Doran couldn’t say for sure how long they had been fighting for when he caught sight of two familiar faces. Galanör and Russell had stuck together, an unlikely duo given their choice of weapon. Yet, somehow, the two complemented each other, their fighting styles blending into one as they anticipated the actions of the other. They had even acquired a gathering of Namdhorian knights, all of whom had clearly decided that fighting alongside the rangers was the best way to stay alive.
A little farther beyond them, Doran noted a flaming sword diving in and out of battle. It reminded him of Vighon. The dwarf pressed on, fighting his way towards the fiery blade, his curiosity piqued. Dakmund followed him and he even drew Galanör and Russell with him. When there were finally enough orcs put down between them, they all laid eyes on the northman.
“It is ye!” Doran shouted with a grin.
Vighon slew the orc in front of him and looked down on the son of Dorain. “Where in all the hells have you been?” he asked with a coy smile.
Doran had no time to conjure a retort; there were orcs to kill. He only chopped two down before the group was dispersed by a single arrow from Reyna’s bow. The elf fought side by side with Nathaniel, who guarded her back, allowing her to use her deadly bow.
“Ye’re all ’ere!” Doran yelled with glee.
“Good to see you, Heavybelly!” Nathaniel cheered.
“I brought company!” Doran thumbed over his shoulder, where Grimwhal’s army was blooding their steel at the orcs’ expense.
“About time!” The response came from Asher, who was in the middle of putting his boot in an orc to free his broadsword from its chest.
Doran buried his axe in an orc’s hip before replying. “So where’s this great weapon o’ yers then?”
Asher defended himself against three orcs before systematically cutting them down one by one, their skill no match for his own - especially when blindfolded. “I’m working on it,” the ranger growled.
Dakmund brought down the largest orc in their area with Andaljor’s hammer denting its skull. “Are we winnin’ this thing or not?”
“I’d say not!” Vighon replied, swiping his sword through an orc’s midriff. “But killing him might make a difference!”
Doran and Dakmund both turned to see an orc who stood above them all. King Karakulak. The beast was still a distance away but, between them, the son of Dorain could see them closing the gap with relative ease.
“We need to reach Inara!” Reyna called over the din.
Doran became concerned when he realised the elf was still looking in Karakulak’s direction. The son of Dorain jumped onto the back of the large orc brought down by Dakmund and focused on the king of orcs. To his horror, Inara was engaging the great beast and alone at that. He had heard well enough of the Dragorn Karakulak had slain…
“Well what are we fightin’ ’ere for?” Doran hollered, leaping onto another orc, axe first. “Let’s separate that wretched monster’s head from its body!”
41
Rebirth
Gideon Thorn cut a swath through the orcs, Mournblade flashing in his hand, just as it had five thousand years ago on a battlefield just like this one. The density of the battle, so close to the centre, made it all the harder to unleash the Vi’tari blade’s full potential. The density and chaos also turned Gideon around more than once, sending him farther away from Inara and Karakulak.
He needed Ilargo to fly overhead and aid his orientation, but the dragons were both occupied now in closing the holes to the south, sealing them with fire. All the while, the giant spiders harassed them, scurrying over their scales and biting them where they could. Gideon could feel the sting of those bites in more places than one.
Karakulak’s distinct roar directed Gideon to the west. The Master Dragorn maintained form five of the Mag’dereth - an aggressive fighting style. His scimitar was on the attack, assaulting the orcs more than defending against them. Some even fled from the sight of his legendary sword, often running into Namdhorian blades.
There weren’t many in this part of the battle, but Gideon had come across a handful of dwarves. They bore the sigil of clan Heavybelly and the Master Dragorn felt a swell of praise for Doran. He could only hope they would be enough to turn the tide…
Where’s Malliath? he managed to ask between swings.
Ilargo didn’t answer right away. He is still battling the stonemaw, the dragon finally reported.
Having seen the monster’s plated hide, Gideon wasn’t surprised. He decided it was a good thing in the end, believing that Malliath would likely cause more harm than good in a battle like this.
Gideon reined his thoughts in when a giant spider come thrashing through a cluster of Namdhorians in front of him. He charged at the creature with Mournblade held in both hands at shoulder height. As he reached the spider, however, there was no fight to be had.
Alijah appeared over the curve of its bulbous body and slid down towards its head, where he plunged his cursed scimitar between the spider’s eyes, driving it to the ground. The half-elf didn’t stop with the spider, his movements fluid and fast. The jade scimitar dashed left and right, slicing effortlessly through orcs before Alijah’s hand launched a staccato of lightning at a painted berserker.
The two warriors paused, locking eyes across the melee. Alijah was covered in wounds, but Gideon guessed they were Malliath’s, given to the dragon by the stonemaw. The half-elf didn’t seem to care for his injuries and they certainly weren’t holding him back.
It was the look in his eyes that worried the Master Dragorn. He had the look of a man possessed, as if one warrior had wiped Alijah away and replaced him entirely. Gideon had seen something similar happen to others in battle, but he had never seen it in Alijah before.
Then there was the scimitar in his hand. The last time Gideon had seen that same blade, he was hiding it in the one place he believed none would find it: Malliath’s lair on Korkanath. Before that, he had seen it in the hands of Thallan Tassariön, Valanis’s general and sword master. The evil elf had wielded the jade scimitar for a thousand years, using it to take innocent lives.
Cursed by Valanis himself, it didn’t belong in the hands of anyone…
The heat of battle, however, was not the place to take Alijah’s weapon away. Instead, Gideon did the only thing he could do: he fought by his side. Together, they cut a path through the orcs until they were in the middle of the field, where Inara and Karakulak had been duelling.
The scene was not as Gideon had last witnessed it.
The king of orcs was now surrounded by the greatest warriors in the realm. Asher swung his mighty broadsword, Doran hacked with his double-bladed axe, Vighon thrust his flaming sword, and Inara dashed in with her scimitar in one hand and the Moonblade in the other. Around them, Galanör raked at the swarming orcs with his scimitars, coupled with Russell’s swinging pick-axe. Reyna and Nathaniel picked off any orcs that slipped past and were brave enough to try and help their king.
Karakulak was alone in this fight.
The orc king, however, wasn’t as Gideon remembered him. Compared to his kin, Karakulak had possessed an air of intelligence about him, seen in his features and especially his eyes. Now, the orc was simply feral, lashing out in every direction with his sword of dragon bone. His pale body was streaked with blood and marred with deep wounds. It wasn’t enough to slow Karakulak down though.
The orc’s huge foot booted Doran in the chest and sent him flying into the fray. Karakulak accepted the biting impact of Asher’s blade just to bring the ranger closer, where it could deliver a gut punch that lifted him from his feet. Karakulak roughly grabbed Asher’s arm and cast him aside with a single hand before ripping the broadsword free of its bloody hip.
Vighon dragged his flaming sword down the king’s back, splitting and scorching the skin all at once. Karakulak roared and backhanded the northman away, leaving only Inara to face it. The young Dragorn was exhausted by the look of her. She had been using magic where she could, adding to her physical and mental fatigue.
Gideon and Alijah rushed in as one, intercepting Karakulak’s downward strike as well as impaling its side. Again, the unnatural orc absorbed its injuries and continued to lash out with the violence of an animal trapped in a corner.
Alijah cast a fireball directly into the orc’s chiselled chest, pushing it back a step but no more. The charred skin gave way to muscle, a mortal wound for any but not an orc fuelled on The Crow’s magic. That terrible bone sword cut through the air, hammering relentlessly at Alijah. The half-elf struck back with steel and magic, both useless against Karakulak.
Inara jumped in, giving her brother a moment’s reprieve, and hacked down on Karakulak’s sword arm. She was subsequently forced to drop and roll in order to avoid its devastating counterattack - a swing so strong it would have cleaved her in two.
Gideon used what magic he still harnessed to shove Inara back even farther, pushing her beyond the king’s second attack. The Master Dragorn leapt in and raised Mournblade over his head to block the incoming sword. The two were locked together, pushing against each other with all their will and strength.
Karakulak was stronger.
Gideon’s arms felt it first, then his back, and eventually his legs, dropping him to one knee. Karakulak growled in his face, the orc’s hot breath adding to the assault. The Master Dragorn had no choice but to change his strategy and dive to the side. As he did, Mournblade flicked out not once but twice before he jumped back to his feet. The blade sliced through the orc’s leg and hip, eliciting a fierce roar from the king.
Everyone pounced. Asher drove his broadsword as Doran buried his axe. Inara jumped high and impaled Karakulak’s shoulder while Alijah pushed his scimitar through its ribs. This should have been the moment the king of orcs fell, its life over and its genocidal campaign with it. But it wasn’t.
Somehow, against the odds and even sense itself, Karakulak dropped its sword and clawed at the warriors with his hands. Alijah was the first to be lifted into the air and hurled into the back of his father. A reaching hand over its shoulder gripped Inara and tossed her aside, leaving her at the feet of baying orcs - only her mother interceding saving her life. Doran was caught in the face by a hard knee and kicked away seconds later.
Only Asher was able to react and withdraw his sword before a skull-breaking backhand slammed into him. The ranger rolled under the attack and came up swinging again, his blade gashing a red line across Karakulak’s midriff. The orc looked down at the wound and back up at Asher. Then it kicked him so hard he folded in half and skidded back through the mud until he rolled into Galanör’s legs and tripped the elf up.
Gideon was still standing and he was still wielding Mournblade. His predecessor had ended The Great War five thousand years ago with the same weapon. Now he intended to do the same.
“Can you hear that echo?” the Master Dragorn called, luring the orc forward. “That’s the sound of history repeating itself!” And he launched at the king with the fury of a dragon.
Snippets of thought returned to Karakulak. He could barely put his words in the right order. His emotions felt raw and powerful, controlling his actions. With every second that went by, however, he was able to understand his environment all the better.
He was on the battlefield.
He was in pain.
He was surrounded by enemies.
The God-King couldn’t recall the sequence of events that had led to this moment. Images assaulted him, reminding the orc that he had ridden the stonemaw into battle. Then there was blood, and lots of it.
There were no dragons in the sky, informing the king that his original plan had worked. The orcs had attacked the Namdhorians’ rear, where they were weakest. With speed and surprise, they had infiltrated the human ranks and swarmed the battlefield, preventing the dragons from eradicating them in great numbers.
This was it, surely his moment of triumph. But there were dwarves on the field, thousands of them. Where had they come from? And what was the beam of light in the south? Karakulak had an increasing number of questions as his senses returned.
These questions would have to wait: Gideon Thorn was standing in front of him. The Master Dragorn appeared exhausted, his shoulders hunched, his head hanging and his leathers damaged and soaked in blood. His wretched sword pointed to the ground as the last few drops of blood slipped off the end, leaving it perfectly clean.
Another moment was required for Karakulak to realise that the blood dripping from the end of that wicked sword was, in fact, his own. He looked down at his body, or what was left of it. Neither of his hands had all of their fingers, the muscle beneath his torso was exposed, the skin charred around the edges. Deep gashes decorated his once exquisite physique, some even revealing bone.
Looking back at the Dragorn, Gideon began to grow in height, his size increasing until he was equal to Karakulak. The orc suspected magic immediately until his vambraces slid from his forearms. The Dragorn wasn’t getting bigger. Karakulak was shrinking. His god-like muscles and hardened bones diminished and returned to their normal size, leaving him in agony. The wounds he had received while full of The Crow’s elixir demanded his attention.
Dropping to his knees, Karakulak groaned and shivered. He had to get more of the elixir! It was damaging for his mind - he believed The Crow now - but what choice did he have? The Master Dragorn was walking towards him with Mournblade in hand…
Hacking his way through one cluster of orcs, the son of Dorain laid eyes on his brother for the first time since they dismounted. The orcs were dropping in quick succession around Dakmund, a sight Doran was unaccustomed to. The reason for his prowess could be found in his brother’s hands.
Andaljor!
With a double-headed axe on one end and a war-hammer on the other, Dakmund was a foe to avoid. The prince of Grimwhal sliced one way before quickly twisting the weapon and crushing his opponents the other way. The axe would remove legs and the hammer would break the skulls.
Hearing his mother’s voice in his head, Doran fought his way to Dakmund’s side and joined his brother in battle. He killed less orcs watching Dakmund’s back, but for the sake of Grimwhal, he knew it was worth it.
Together, they reduced the number of orcs on the field and sent every one of them to Grarfath with Heavybelly on their lips. Doran could only hope that when their time was over on Verda’s green earth, he would be allowed to join his brother in the Hall of Honour and eat at Grarfath’s table.
“Havin’ fun, little brother?” Doran shouted over the melee.
Dakmund caved in the head of an orc, shattering its horns in the process. “I fear we didn’ bring enough,” he replied gravely, his assessment harrowingly accurate.
Before Doran could offer encouragement, an orc burst through a pair of Namdhorians and launched itself at him. Unlike its kin, this orc was painted from head to toe in black and yellow, its body devoid of any armour. It was a bloody stupid way to enter a battle in Doran’s opinion, but since he was currently pinned underneath the beast, he was unable to share it.
Dakmund turned to help him but quickly discovered a group of orcs had taken it upon themselves to kill him and only him, pushing him back.
The painted orc roared in Doran’s face, dripping hot saliva onto his face and beard. The son of Dorain growled, dropped his sword and heaved the orc off his body just enough to sock the beast in the jaw, ridding him of its weight.
The orc, unfortunately, was quick to recover and hounded Doran before he could get to his feet. It barrelled into him, sending them both rolling across the bloody field in a tangle of limbs and punching fists. The orc, berserk in its nature, came out of the wrestle on top and immediately gripped each side of Doran’s head.
What happened next was by far the most painful thing the son of Dorain had ever experienced.
He managed to displace the beast’s left hand, but its right hand squeezed, forcing its thumb into Doran’s left eye. The dwarf howled in pain and punched the orc relentlessly in the ribs. Ignorant to the beating, the orc maintained its hold of his head.
Doran’s mind was filled with nothing except rage, the pain driving him mad. The dwarf threw all of his strength into battering the orc’s arm away. Crouched over him now, the ranger reached up and snatched the orc’s head, pulling it down as he lifted his head. The creature’s nose broke against his forehead and it snapped its own head back, away from the source of the pain.
The son of Dorain, however, was holding onto the orc’s pointed ears, both of which were ripped from its head in the process. Doran pushed the beast away and scrambled to his feet. The double-blade axe felt good in his hands, though he couldn’t recall the moment he had retrieved it from his back.
Raised over his head, the axe came down on the centre of his foe’s skull, splitting its head into two sides right down to the neck.
His eye hurt like hell, though there was nothing left of it to call an eye anymore. Blood dripped down his cheek and stained his blond beard red. Were the battle not so dire, he would take his time and make every single orc suffer before he ended their miserable life. As it was, he had no choice but to rejoin his brother and return to cutting the orcs down with great efficiency.
“I see ye’ve been makin’ improvements!” Dakmund jibed, gesturing to Doran’s bloody socket.
Doran swung his two-handed axe and cleaved the head from another orc. “Ye find a good dwarven woman who doesn’ get weak at the knees seein’ a decent battle scar!”
Dakmund laughed as he hacked two more orcs to pieces.
The battle raged on in this fashion. They would slaughter orcs beside their kin and laugh whenever they could. It was in their bones to enjoy killing orcs and enjoy it they would.
Doran couldn’t say for sure how long they had been fighting for when he caught sight of two familiar faces. Galanör and Russell had stuck together, an unlikely duo given their choice of weapon. Yet, somehow, the two complemented each other, their fighting styles blending into one as they anticipated the actions of the other. They had even acquired a gathering of Namdhorian knights, all of whom had clearly decided that fighting alongside the rangers was the best way to stay alive.
A little farther beyond them, Doran noted a flaming sword diving in and out of battle. It reminded him of Vighon. The dwarf pressed on, fighting his way towards the fiery blade, his curiosity piqued. Dakmund followed him and he even drew Galanör and Russell with him. When there were finally enough orcs put down between them, they all laid eyes on the northman.
“It is ye!” Doran shouted with a grin.
Vighon slew the orc in front of him and looked down on the son of Dorain. “Where in all the hells have you been?” he asked with a coy smile.
Doran had no time to conjure a retort; there were orcs to kill. He only chopped two down before the group was dispersed by a single arrow from Reyna’s bow. The elf fought side by side with Nathaniel, who guarded her back, allowing her to use her deadly bow.
“Ye’re all ’ere!” Doran yelled with glee.
“Good to see you, Heavybelly!” Nathaniel cheered.
“I brought company!” Doran thumbed over his shoulder, where Grimwhal’s army was blooding their steel at the orcs’ expense.
“About time!” The response came from Asher, who was in the middle of putting his boot in an orc to free his broadsword from its chest.
Doran buried his axe in an orc’s hip before replying. “So where’s this great weapon o’ yers then?”
Asher defended himself against three orcs before systematically cutting them down one by one, their skill no match for his own - especially when blindfolded. “I’m working on it,” the ranger growled.
Dakmund brought down the largest orc in their area with Andaljor’s hammer denting its skull. “Are we winnin’ this thing or not?”
“I’d say not!” Vighon replied, swiping his sword through an orc’s midriff. “But killing him might make a difference!”
Doran and Dakmund both turned to see an orc who stood above them all. King Karakulak. The beast was still a distance away but, between them, the son of Dorain could see them closing the gap with relative ease.
“We need to reach Inara!” Reyna called over the din.
Doran became concerned when he realised the elf was still looking in Karakulak’s direction. The son of Dorain jumped onto the back of the large orc brought down by Dakmund and focused on the king of orcs. To his horror, Inara was engaging the great beast and alone at that. He had heard well enough of the Dragorn Karakulak had slain…
“Well what are we fightin’ ’ere for?” Doran hollered, leaping onto another orc, axe first. “Let’s separate that wretched monster’s head from its body!”
41
Rebirth
Gideon Thorn cut a swath through the orcs, Mournblade flashing in his hand, just as it had five thousand years ago on a battlefield just like this one. The density of the battle, so close to the centre, made it all the harder to unleash the Vi’tari blade’s full potential. The density and chaos also turned Gideon around more than once, sending him farther away from Inara and Karakulak.
He needed Ilargo to fly overhead and aid his orientation, but the dragons were both occupied now in closing the holes to the south, sealing them with fire. All the while, the giant spiders harassed them, scurrying over their scales and biting them where they could. Gideon could feel the sting of those bites in more places than one.
Karakulak’s distinct roar directed Gideon to the west. The Master Dragorn maintained form five of the Mag’dereth - an aggressive fighting style. His scimitar was on the attack, assaulting the orcs more than defending against them. Some even fled from the sight of his legendary sword, often running into Namdhorian blades.
There weren’t many in this part of the battle, but Gideon had come across a handful of dwarves. They bore the sigil of clan Heavybelly and the Master Dragorn felt a swell of praise for Doran. He could only hope they would be enough to turn the tide…
Where’s Malliath? he managed to ask between swings.
Ilargo didn’t answer right away. He is still battling the stonemaw, the dragon finally reported.
Having seen the monster’s plated hide, Gideon wasn’t surprised. He decided it was a good thing in the end, believing that Malliath would likely cause more harm than good in a battle like this.
Gideon reined his thoughts in when a giant spider come thrashing through a cluster of Namdhorians in front of him. He charged at the creature with Mournblade held in both hands at shoulder height. As he reached the spider, however, there was no fight to be had.
Alijah appeared over the curve of its bulbous body and slid down towards its head, where he plunged his cursed scimitar between the spider’s eyes, driving it to the ground. The half-elf didn’t stop with the spider, his movements fluid and fast. The jade scimitar dashed left and right, slicing effortlessly through orcs before Alijah’s hand launched a staccato of lightning at a painted berserker.
The two warriors paused, locking eyes across the melee. Alijah was covered in wounds, but Gideon guessed they were Malliath’s, given to the dragon by the stonemaw. The half-elf didn’t seem to care for his injuries and they certainly weren’t holding him back.
It was the look in his eyes that worried the Master Dragorn. He had the look of a man possessed, as if one warrior had wiped Alijah away and replaced him entirely. Gideon had seen something similar happen to others in battle, but he had never seen it in Alijah before.
Then there was the scimitar in his hand. The last time Gideon had seen that same blade, he was hiding it in the one place he believed none would find it: Malliath’s lair on Korkanath. Before that, he had seen it in the hands of Thallan Tassariön, Valanis’s general and sword master. The evil elf had wielded the jade scimitar for a thousand years, using it to take innocent lives.
Cursed by Valanis himself, it didn’t belong in the hands of anyone…
The heat of battle, however, was not the place to take Alijah’s weapon away. Instead, Gideon did the only thing he could do: he fought by his side. Together, they cut a path through the orcs until they were in the middle of the field, where Inara and Karakulak had been duelling.
The scene was not as Gideon had last witnessed it.
The king of orcs was now surrounded by the greatest warriors in the realm. Asher swung his mighty broadsword, Doran hacked with his double-bladed axe, Vighon thrust his flaming sword, and Inara dashed in with her scimitar in one hand and the Moonblade in the other. Around them, Galanör raked at the swarming orcs with his scimitars, coupled with Russell’s swinging pick-axe. Reyna and Nathaniel picked off any orcs that slipped past and were brave enough to try and help their king.
Karakulak was alone in this fight.
The orc king, however, wasn’t as Gideon remembered him. Compared to his kin, Karakulak had possessed an air of intelligence about him, seen in his features and especially his eyes. Now, the orc was simply feral, lashing out in every direction with his sword of dragon bone. His pale body was streaked with blood and marred with deep wounds. It wasn’t enough to slow Karakulak down though.
The orc’s huge foot booted Doran in the chest and sent him flying into the fray. Karakulak accepted the biting impact of Asher’s blade just to bring the ranger closer, where it could deliver a gut punch that lifted him from his feet. Karakulak roughly grabbed Asher’s arm and cast him aside with a single hand before ripping the broadsword free of its bloody hip.
Vighon dragged his flaming sword down the king’s back, splitting and scorching the skin all at once. Karakulak roared and backhanded the northman away, leaving only Inara to face it. The young Dragorn was exhausted by the look of her. She had been using magic where she could, adding to her physical and mental fatigue.
Gideon and Alijah rushed in as one, intercepting Karakulak’s downward strike as well as impaling its side. Again, the unnatural orc absorbed its injuries and continued to lash out with the violence of an animal trapped in a corner.
Alijah cast a fireball directly into the orc’s chiselled chest, pushing it back a step but no more. The charred skin gave way to muscle, a mortal wound for any but not an orc fuelled on The Crow’s magic. That terrible bone sword cut through the air, hammering relentlessly at Alijah. The half-elf struck back with steel and magic, both useless against Karakulak.
Inara jumped in, giving her brother a moment’s reprieve, and hacked down on Karakulak’s sword arm. She was subsequently forced to drop and roll in order to avoid its devastating counterattack - a swing so strong it would have cleaved her in two.
Gideon used what magic he still harnessed to shove Inara back even farther, pushing her beyond the king’s second attack. The Master Dragorn leapt in and raised Mournblade over his head to block the incoming sword. The two were locked together, pushing against each other with all their will and strength.
Karakulak was stronger.
Gideon’s arms felt it first, then his back, and eventually his legs, dropping him to one knee. Karakulak growled in his face, the orc’s hot breath adding to the assault. The Master Dragorn had no choice but to change his strategy and dive to the side. As he did, Mournblade flicked out not once but twice before he jumped back to his feet. The blade sliced through the orc’s leg and hip, eliciting a fierce roar from the king.
Everyone pounced. Asher drove his broadsword as Doran buried his axe. Inara jumped high and impaled Karakulak’s shoulder while Alijah pushed his scimitar through its ribs. This should have been the moment the king of orcs fell, its life over and its genocidal campaign with it. But it wasn’t.
Somehow, against the odds and even sense itself, Karakulak dropped its sword and clawed at the warriors with his hands. Alijah was the first to be lifted into the air and hurled into the back of his father. A reaching hand over its shoulder gripped Inara and tossed her aside, leaving her at the feet of baying orcs - only her mother interceding saving her life. Doran was caught in the face by a hard knee and kicked away seconds later.
Only Asher was able to react and withdraw his sword before a skull-breaking backhand slammed into him. The ranger rolled under the attack and came up swinging again, his blade gashing a red line across Karakulak’s midriff. The orc looked down at the wound and back up at Asher. Then it kicked him so hard he folded in half and skidded back through the mud until he rolled into Galanör’s legs and tripped the elf up.
Gideon was still standing and he was still wielding Mournblade. His predecessor had ended The Great War five thousand years ago with the same weapon. Now he intended to do the same.
“Can you hear that echo?” the Master Dragorn called, luring the orc forward. “That’s the sound of history repeating itself!” And he launched at the king with the fury of a dragon.
Snippets of thought returned to Karakulak. He could barely put his words in the right order. His emotions felt raw and powerful, controlling his actions. With every second that went by, however, he was able to understand his environment all the better.
He was on the battlefield.
He was in pain.
He was surrounded by enemies.
The God-King couldn’t recall the sequence of events that had led to this moment. Images assaulted him, reminding the orc that he had ridden the stonemaw into battle. Then there was blood, and lots of it.
There were no dragons in the sky, informing the king that his original plan had worked. The orcs had attacked the Namdhorians’ rear, where they were weakest. With speed and surprise, they had infiltrated the human ranks and swarmed the battlefield, preventing the dragons from eradicating them in great numbers.
This was it, surely his moment of triumph. But there were dwarves on the field, thousands of them. Where had they come from? And what was the beam of light in the south? Karakulak had an increasing number of questions as his senses returned.
These questions would have to wait: Gideon Thorn was standing in front of him. The Master Dragorn appeared exhausted, his shoulders hunched, his head hanging and his leathers damaged and soaked in blood. His wretched sword pointed to the ground as the last few drops of blood slipped off the end, leaving it perfectly clean.
Another moment was required for Karakulak to realise that the blood dripping from the end of that wicked sword was, in fact, his own. He looked down at his body, or what was left of it. Neither of his hands had all of their fingers, the muscle beneath his torso was exposed, the skin charred around the edges. Deep gashes decorated his once exquisite physique, some even revealing bone.
Looking back at the Dragorn, Gideon began to grow in height, his size increasing until he was equal to Karakulak. The orc suspected magic immediately until his vambraces slid from his forearms. The Dragorn wasn’t getting bigger. Karakulak was shrinking. His god-like muscles and hardened bones diminished and returned to their normal size, leaving him in agony. The wounds he had received while full of The Crow’s elixir demanded his attention.
Dropping to his knees, Karakulak groaned and shivered. He had to get more of the elixir! It was damaging for his mind - he believed The Crow now - but what choice did he have? The Master Dragorn was walking towards him with Mournblade in hand…
