Fight for the Broken Land Pt. 01

A hooded figure came into sight but it was not all lost yet. They could see him from their hideout but were hoping that he would not be able to see them. Swiftly, their chaser paced through the small opening of the town street. The barrels in front of Marius and his partner kept them out of sight. He was sure there had been enough of a head start to guarantee their chaser did not see where they hid themselves.

But then the hooded figure stopped. Standed in silence leaning into his oak staff. Figuring out something. Almost as if reaching out with his thoughts.

"I know you're behind the barrels, please show yourselves," he said sternly and then removed his grey hood. The boys could see that at least he was not any of the soldiers they had escaped earlier. Still, they were petrified to be caught by this unknown man.

When their grandfather, Grok, had spoken to them for the last time he had leaned into the boys. Looked dead serious and gave them his instructions in a lowered voice. Something in his green wrinkled face and his grey bushy eyebrows had made it more than clear that it was a matter of life and death. His words still echoed in Marius' ears,

"When the soldiers are looking at the fight you will not do the same. You will run. You will do it quietly, but you will run like your life depends on it. Find your other grandpa or your father. They will know what to do. Trust no one else."

Girou had had tears in his eyes but his big brother Marius had nodded to his grandfather and Grok had nodded back. And it had been exactly as Grok had told them. The soldiers were mesmerized by the two orc fighters clashing into each other and completely missed the boys disappearing into the cornfield surrounding their home.

The trip to the nearest town had been long. On the way there they had seen the soldiers riding past them as they hid in the bushes. When they finally reached the town they were tired and hungry. But without any food or money, they were lost. And to make matters worse this grey-hooded figure had almost caught them when they tried to explain to the main castle guards that they wanted to see the state secretary.

When the stranger had called them by their name they just assumed he was part of the soldiers looking for them. And then they ran for it. Now it seemed they did not have any more place to run for. The man was closing in right on the other side of the barrels.

"Please boys, hear me out. I am not with the ones chasing after you. Quite the opposite. If, after you hear me out, you do not wish for my company, I will leave you alone. But I have come a long way just for you."

He told the boys his name was Seth and his uncle Balior had been friends with their grandfather Grok. Although a long long time ago. He assured them he was there to help and even handed them a medallion presenting the emblem which he told to be the sign of the tribe of Andurians.

None of it was that clear to the boys but they did recall the name of Balior the mage. Countless times they had insisted their father tell them the story of their grandfather defeating the evil king Javerdel. Grok never spoke about it but Damoran understood better how young boys yearned for such stories. In awe, they had listened to it time after time. One of the most captivating parts of it was the old mage burning the king and sacrificing his own life while doing it.

In the end, it was the hunger that got them. They knew it could be a trick but they were out of options. Seth took them to a warm tavern and gave them food and a place to rest. They did not have to wait for sleep to come and while they slept Seth was thinking about the long and potentially dangerous trip of getting the boys to their father.

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The concept of a battle orc is somewhat lost to those who haven't faced one on the battleground. It is not just an orc that has gone into a battle. It is three to four hundred pounds of bestial muscles clade in armory leather and iron ring scale mails. More often made purposefully more fearsome with a horned helmet and spiked pads on shoulders, elbows, and knees.

When you meet a rushing battle orc it is almost as if you would meet a cavalry horse and its rider. A single human foot soldier has very little chance of surviving such an assault. And zero chance of stopping such a brutish foe on the front line. However, the most dexterous soldiers try to parry and dance around them. Teaming up and surrounding the charging bull can be the path to victory.

However, Damoran was learning that when the tanky battle orcs of Bara-ur were supported by the greater numbers of human soldiers on their side there was very little his forces could do to them. His army was trained and disciplined. And they had the numbers exceeding their enemy forces. But they did not have orcs. And they were losing.

He was having a hard time believing it. Somehow the scouts had missed the full size of the enemy army and the hundred or so orcs as its core unit. A great number of the people of Takagiwa had joined their enemy. Something else was odd on top of all that. Ever since Damoran's forces had engaged the opposing force there was a level of despair running through his men.

Once more he looked through his telescope and saw the black hooded figure chanting at the top of a hill at the other side of the battle. It had to be something to do with the terrible morale that had hit his troops.

He knew his father had led an army to the gates of Takagiwa and his troops had been victorious. A shame was burning in Damoran's chest. There would be no victory for him that day.

With a curse he commanded the signaling man and a wailing loud sound of the trumpet told Damoran's troops to back it off. To disengage and retreat. Unfortunately, the same sound told the berserk Bara-ur to push for more kills. Damoran made a mental note that he should have drilled his troops for a pull-out maneuver but it had never occurred to him that he should train them for running away from a lost battle.

Their retreat was turning into chaos. Damoran gritted his teeth and made up his mind. Taking a reserve squadron of men with him he charged on to the Bara-ur troops chasing his fleeing soldiers. With a steady and experienced hand, he hacked the opponents side by side with his men. And for a moment his counterstrike was able to stop the attackers. Buying time for the ones who had already lost their fate.

Then he turned and could see one of his best captains decapitated with a fierce blow from a heavily armored purple orc. The attacker did not pause for a second and at the last possible moment Damoran realized the orc was coming straight at him. Damoran's head was next on his list.

With a great roar, the orc charged at Damoran. If not for the countless hours on the training grounds and several smaller victorious fights this would have been it for Damoran. But now his training and experience were there to save him. With uncanny speed, he dodged to the side. Managing to avoid the purple orc's full power and hacking him back with his shield. Guiding his opponent's speed away from himself.

As soon as he had clashed in with this enemy orc a terrible doubt had entered Damoran's mind. He had known from the start that his army would not be able to defeat the Bara-ur troops and similarly, now he knew he was not strong enough to beat this purple orc.

But through his despair, a thought came to him. His father. Grok had waited in the cabin in the woods for decades and when the time came he had risen to the challenge and defeated the Javerdels. Damoran would have to do something of that sort. Live today to fight at another time and another place.

With effort, he ordered his men to disengage, and under the devastating blows of his purple foe, he was backing away as well.

While Damoran's reserve squadron had met the enemy in a melee fight the rest of Damoran's officers had been able to restore some level of order. A row of archers were now picking out the enemy soldiers one by one giving their own men time to flee away.

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"It's a pity," said a mourning figure to his partner looking at the corpse of their fallen comrade. After a pause he continued, "I thought that he would have survived for sure. He always seemed nearly invincible."

"He was strong, I'll give you that much. But this time it seems he bit off more than he could chew. And after all, war means casualties. It can not be avoided. And those of us who remain will have to carry on with even greater determination." said the other person.

"It was him, wasn't it? The half-breed of Andurians!" the first one asked.

As the huge purple body of Raz-ul's cousin was carried away by four soldiers the black priest confirmed it,

"Yes, yes he was. And now that I have seen him fight I understand my visions only too well. Even in his most desperate moment, he was able to resist my misery spells. And the speed that he used for cutting your cousin's throat was something I have never seen before."

This irritated Raz-ul and he spat back to the priest,

"Bah! When I meet him his speed will not save him. I will crush him like a bug that he is!"

The priest could see Raz-ul's temper rising and turned his focus on other thoughts.

"Come on now. We must plan for our campaign. After the land hears of our victory, there will be plenty of those wanting to join us."