Clang.
Rusted rings scrape against one another. Dry rust flakes grind loose, throwing off a harsh rasp. Pitted patches of metal catch, slip apart, and spit out a short, sharp sound.
Breath leaks from a mouth. Air let out through bared teeth seeps low, and air drawn in through the nose leaves a clogged rattle behind.
A growl rises in broken pieces from deep in a throat. A blade edge grazes stone. The uneven surface scrapes, ringing out an irregular note of metal. A raised weapon, snagged on something, sways and knocks against other metal with a short clang.
Spit drips. It stretches out thick and sticky, snaps, and spatters on the ground.
A rough, deep breath is shoved out again in short bursts.
The orcs are moving.
Heavy footfalls pounded the earth, layer upon layer. Chains and twisted scraps of iron clashed together as they flowed toward the breach. Shoulder slammed into shoulder, and bodies shoved aside were shoved forward again. The breathing of the horde fused into one sound, low and thick.
Across the rubble of Damu's fallen wall, the invaders' footprints piled up.
A javelin came flying, straight into the heart of the orc horde. A gray gauntlet, crusted with dust and grime, smacked the incoming blade aside.
With a sharp ring, the javelin ricocheted sideways. The gauntlet's owner did not break stride.
In the middle of the horde, a huge shadow pushed through the thin mist. Everywhere it passed, orcs turned their heads to see what it was, flinched, and stepped aside to open the way.
A giant orc.
Atop a thick neck, coarse hair stood bristling in a heavy mass from the crown to the nape. The sides of the head were shaved close to bare skin, and several rings woven from finger bones hung there, swaying. Beneath a broad brow, the eyes sat small and deep-set, yet their gaze seemed to look down on the entire horde ahead. Two yellowed tusks jutting from either side of the lower jaw pushed up the upper lip, and through the open mouth, the gaps of missing teeth showed black. Thick scars crossed the face from brow to chin, layered one over another.
The armor wrapped around that body had not been made as a set. The marks of mismatched gear, dragged together and stitched on, were plain to see.
The plate over the shoulders was a piece hacked from what had once been a shield. The edges were uneven and jagged, and the marks where the metal had been torn were left as they were. The breastplate did not fit. It would not sit flush against the body but stood off from it, forced into place with several wraps of leather cord. Wherever the cords pulled tight, the leather had stretched, and deep dents showed where the metal had been pressed.
Dents overlapped all over the armor. They had not come from a single blow. Dents from being struck, crushed, hammered flat, and bent again lay one atop another. Rust had spread along the surface, and wherever it had been scraped, the finish was stripped away, leaving the metal rough and bare.
At the waist, animal teeth and bones, along with a few severed finger joints, hung strung on cords. With every step they knocked together and gave off dry clacks. The sound of hard things striking and the hollow ring of bone blended together.
A worn wolf pelt hung across the back. The fur had fallen out in patches, and what remained was matted and stiff. The hem was frayed, and with each movement its forked tails swayed. Beneath it, the exposed forearms and shoulders were covered in layer upon layer of scars. Long slashes, gashes torn by blunt weapons, and wounds that had festered and hardened were tangled together across the skin.
The axe in his right hand was unlike any other orc's. It was not a single blade but a grotesque thing, several broken saw blades layered and hammered together.
Teeth large and small jutted out in every direction, and in every gap, dried flesh and animal hair were caked. One blade was already chipped and blunt, but the blade beside it was still sharp. Below them, the haft was thick and rough. Rusted chain was wound around the grip in several layers, and over it, gouges and notches from years of twisting and swinging in a clenched hand were cut deep. At the end of the haft, animal horns and a few small skulls hung bound with leather cord, knocking against one another whenever the axe moved. Layers of blood had crusted over the whole blade, hardened black.
Even among orcs, that build stood out. The height reached about five cubits. Facing such a bulk, the orcs slowed, one and all, and averted their eyes. One orc in the way, too slow to step aside, brushed a shoulder against it, and without so much as looking back, that orc ducked its head and cowered.
Gorgash.
Emissary of Okka, the god of destruction. The Orc Lord of Terror, as he was called. An orc who named himself the one chosen by Okka.
Orcs follow the strong. That was the only law among orcs. Whoever surpassed the rest in strength became chieftain, and the chieftain's seat always passed to someone stronger. Gorgash was the orc who had proved that law most thoroughly.
The southwestern Badlands had once been scattered with dozens of orc tribes, large and small. Each raised its own chieftain, and they had long gone on tearing at one another over hunting grounds. Gorgash sought those tribes out one by one. The first to fall was the Blackfang Tribe of the northern Badlands.
That tribe's chieftain had made his name across the Badlands on sheer bulk, yet he did not last more than a few clashes against Gorgash's axe before his head came off. The severed head was set on a spear planted in the middle of the tribe's camp, and before dawn had even broken, the remaining orcs were on the ground before Gorgash, foreheads pressed to the dirt.
As the tribes he broke grew in number, the road to the next tribe grew shorter. Gorgash's name reached the land before he did.
The tales the surviving orcs carried differed from tribe to tribe, but the endings were all the same. The tale of the Blackfang Tribe's chieftain hanging from a spearpoint, the tale of orcs felled before Gorgash's axe, spread on the dry winds of the Badlands. Whatever the tribe, the moment a blood-stained, tattered banner showed on the horizon, they knew that Okka's emissary had come for them.
Some chieftains, whenever Gorgash's banner appeared beyond the horizon, would raise their weapons and be the first to charge out, as a matter of course. It was a ferocious charge meant to prove orc pride, but their war cries never carried any further than the moment they met Gorgash.
It could not even be called a battle. It was a one-sided slaughter. The instant the tribe's largest, fiercest chieftain was torn apart in a single blow and reduced to a hunk of meat, the remaining orcs submitted before that overwhelming strength. When the chieftain's head, dripping blood onto the dry earth, was set on a spearpoint, the orcs dropped their weapons and prostrated themselves on the road, foreheads to the ground, before Gorgash had even arrived. It was not the flight of cowards. It was blind, instinctive obedience to the one truth of the orcs: 'absolute strength.'
Yet there were tribes that, even faced with their chieftain's gruesome death, could not master the bloodlust and bared their fangs to the end. To those who would not yield to the law of strength, Gorgash showed not a shred of mercy. All night long, the sound of that grotesque saw-bladed axe tearing flesh and crushing bone rang across the dry earth of the Badlands.
When morning came, all that remained of such a tribe was burned banners and mountains of corpses mangled beyond recognition. No orc was left there to join Gorgash's army, and none to survive and spread word of his terror.
Before a few years had passed, the banners of every tribe once scattered across the Badlands had gathered beneath Gorgash's axe. Now the Badlands had only one chieftain.
But among the warriors who followed that overwhelming Orc King, a strange murmur often went around. Something about Gorgash was off. Even after a bloody battle ended, unlike other chieftains, he did not roar at the top of his lungs. He simply stood still and looked down at the trampled horde.
That deep, quiet gaze, as if weighing something, was strange and unsettling to orcs. To an orc, using one's head was just another word for weakness, and an orc who was not a raging beast was not a true orc.
To those orcs, Gorgash had been different from the rest even before a fight began. He did not look only at the enemy in front of him. First he sized up which chieftain really held the power, which warrior harbored the hunger to become the next chieftain, which one would stand against him to the end.
Gorgash did not look at every enemy with the same eyes. He sorted the orcs who had to be struck down from the orcs to be spared. Those who proved their strength he set beneath him. Those who would someday turn a blade on him he removed on the spot. He did not stop at cutting off a chieftain's head. He decided who would remain after the head fell, and who would follow him.
Another orc would swing an axe seeing only the victory in front of him. But Gorgash was looking even at the orcs who would be left standing once the fighting was over.
As the tribes he had broken gathered, one after another, under his banner, even the orcs who had murmured at first that something was wrong fell silent. Gorgash's head was no weakness. It was the strength to break stronger enemies and take more.
Gorgash's nostrils flared wide. They twitched at the smell seeping in at the tip of his nose. The sweet smell of blood. Red scraps of flesh showed through the thinning mist. It was the smell Gorgash loved best.
The war cries erupting all around filled his ears. The roars bursting from orc throats were sounds that lifted his mood just to hear. From every direction, the voices of orcs crying "Okka!" mingled and rang out.
The corners of Gorgash's mouth slowly rose.
Through those war cries, something was approaching fast. A Mooloomook was shoving aside the orcs in its path and bearing straight down on Gorgash. A sturdy body sat atop four short, thick legs, and a low hump rose over the shoulders. Dark brown fur grew shaggy from neck to shoulders, and the coat beneath was clumped here and there with dried mud. Two short black horns curved inward in rounded arcs, and rough breath steamed white from the large nostrils. Every time the broad, thick hooves came down, chips of rubble flew. The spearpoint of the Nishi rider on its back was leveled at Gorgash's throat.
Gorgash seized an orc beside him by the shoulder and yanked it forward.
The Nishi rider's spearpoint sank straight into the torso of the orc, dragged in without any idea why. Skewered, the orc swallowed a short breath. Without letting go, Gorgash held the body up in front of himself like a shield, and swung his other arm in a wide arc.
The thick forearm slammed into the rider's flank. The rider was knocked out of the saddle and went rolling across the ground. The Mooloomook bucked, its empty saddle swinging. It shouldered aside the orcs blocking its path and, a few spears and arrows lodged in its hide, passed out of Gorgash's sight.
Gorgash flung aside the impaled underling's body and walked on.
His gaze came to rest on a Dawi up ahead, swinging a sword. A one-handed sword with a thick blade traced short, straight arcs and cut through an orc's throat. There was no wasted motion. Gorgash stopped, and for a moment he simply watched that sword, which felled enemies without a single big movement.
*****
Orden's sword cut down the orc before him. As he stepped over the falling body to take his next step, a blade of red flame flickered at his side. Nia's '180 Gold Coins' swept past, splitting two orcs in a single stroke.
Orden regripped his sword and glanced toward Nia.
"Nia, was it? That's a flashy sword you wield."
Orden said, taking in the flames running along the blade. Even as he spoke, he never stopped cutting the shoulder off an approaching orc.
Nia answered briefly.
"It's Magic-dar."
Around Orden and Nia, the clash of iron on iron, the tearing of flesh, and the whistle of arrows through the air blended together, drowning out their conversation again and again. Somewhere, a Dawi soldier's scream rang out briefly and was soon buried under another orc's shout. Near the stone wall, the hammering of stone being split went on as before, and over it, Vargo's voice boomed once more.
"Bring more stones over here! The bigger, the better!"
Not far off, a Muwa Winged soldier fell with a short cry. An arrow was lodged in the Winged soldier's body. Other Winged soldiers quickly changed course and dropped down toward the spot.
Orden's sword lopped off another orc's arm. He flicked the blade sideways in a short cut to shake off the blood and raised his head, and at that moment, far off, an enormous orc came into view, leveling a gauntleted hand straight at him. The gray gauntlet, caked with dust, was aimed squarely at Orden.
'That one has to go down.'
Orden's eyes turned cold. His grip tightened on the sword. His toes pushed off the ground, and he shot straight toward Gorgash.