Chapter 33: Morgash Bloodhowl
Everything unfolded just as Alistair had predicted. The orc forces, attempting to rendezvous near Ironstone Village, ran headlong into the army he had laid in ambush.
Outside the village, the human and orc armies faced each other in a tense standoff, separated by the frozen expanse of the Sablewood River. Though the season was mild, the local Rime-fin fish released a palpable chill into the water during their spawn, leaving the river ice thick and solid even now.
Dusk was falling. The golden light of the sun deepened to a blood-red, and the very air around Ironstone Village grew heavy and charged.
Numerically, even with the players, the orc legion held a significant advantage.
Alistair and Hawthorn’s regular troops combined numbered just over five hundred. With the addition of the active players and a thousand hastily levied militiamen, their total force was a little over two thousand. But war was rarely decided by numbers alone.
The players could resurrect. Though individually weak, they could not be counted as single units.
Clad in burnished steel, Alistair sat astride his Drakeblood Steed, observing the orcish phalanx across the river. Thorne and Hawthorn were positioned at his flanks.
"Thorne, your assessment."
"Lord Alistair," Thorne began, his voice steady, "the orcs are numerous, but aside from their thousand-odd heavy infantry and those sixty wolf riders, the rest are goblin vanguard. Cannon fodder." He paused, then added, "These goblins are even more fragile than the Sablewood militia."
Beside them, Hawthorn’s face soured. It was this so-called cannon fodder that had conquered two of his largest towns and was now marching on his keep. This was just another way of calling his militia, and by extension him, utterly useless. The lord and his man, Hawthorn fumed internally, a pair of vipers, one as venomous as the other.
Thorne’s analysis was sound. Goblins, save for a few rare variants, were a species born to be expendable. Scarcely taller than a human child, they charged with a high-pitched, guttural squawking and, possessing limited intelligence, often broke formation to run in random directions.
Leading the invasion was the newly appointed orc general, Morgash Bloodhowl.
He desperately needed a decisive victory to cement his status within the orc legions, and the weak but strategically vital Sablewood was to be his proving ground.
Morgash considered himself a creature of profound intellect, entirely unlike the mindless brutes and fools that constituted the majority of his kin. In his mind, the combination of overwhelming strength and superior intellect would make the orcs invincible.
And so, upon first encountering the human army, he did not scream "WAAAGH!" and lead a blind, all-out charge.
He held his forces back, maintaining the standoff as he carefully observed the composition of the human army. It was clear the Lord of Sablewood had found reinforcements; the number of regular soldiers on the far bank had more than doubled from what his intelligence had suggested.
There was also a disorganized mob of humans who didn’t look like militia. They lounged, squatted, and chattered incessantly, showing no semblance of military discipline. They were more like...
Morgash’s gaze drifted to his own goblin vanguard.
The goblins were in a similar state of chaos—scrambling up trees, chewing on grass. Morgash was quite sure he saw one goblin manage to set its own loincloth on fire with a torch.
They were identical.
Had human armies truly degenerated to this state? His thousand heavy orc infantry could slaughter the fewer than five hundred human regulars and their militia, and that was without even committing his wolf riders. As for that undisciplined rabble? The goblins could handle them.
Morgash found it almost unbelievable. He had spent weeks devising intricate plots and detailed plans for this campaign.
After a moment’s consideration, he decided to test the waters with an offer of surrender. He patted the neck of the massive warg beneath him, but as he prepared to ride forward, he had a second thought. With a wave of his hand, he motioned for a wolf rider to deliver the message instead.
The wolf rider spurred his mount forward and, cupping his hands around his mouth, bellowed a string of harsh, guttural syllables at Alistair’s lines.
"Gro-nak ul-thak! Hosh-narga nar-gok, slor-ak vosh!" [Listen, humans! The merciful Chief Bloodhowl offers you a chance to live! You must surrender now!]
Alistair understood none of it.
Lazlo, Baron Hawthorn’s steward, strode forward, his chest puffed with pride. Finally, a chance to display his talents. Though he maintained a stern expression, he couldn’t hide the smug glint in his eyes. As an honors graduate of the Pyrian Imperial Academy of Stewards, fluency in the major languages of the continent—including Orcish—was a required course.
"My lord Alistair, allow me. Lazlo, distinguished graduate of the Academy’s 18th class, at your service. I shall translate the words of the orc rider. He says: ’The merciful Chief...’"
"That won’t be necessary." Alistair raised a hand, cutting him off without a glance. He beckoned to a nearby archer and took the man’s longbow.
In one fluid motion, he nocked an arrow, drew the string to his ear, and released.
The orc wolf rider saw the movement too late. With a sharp hiss, the arrow closed the distance in an instant, its piercing shriek ending as it punched through his skull. The sheer force of the impact threw him from his saddle. He tumbled across the frozen ground, finally coming to a stop at the feet of Morgash Bloodhowl.
"TREACHEROUS HUMAN!"
Morgash’s eyes went wide with fury at the sight of his slaughtered rider. He drew the massive, spiked mace from his belt, raised it high above his head, and let out a deafening roar. "BLOOD AND HONOR! ORC LEGION, KILL THEM ALL!"
"WAAAGH!"
"WAAAGH!"
The orc infantry began to advance, driving the shrieking goblins before them like a tide of flesh. The wolf riders fell back, guarding the army’s flanks.
"Whoa! Here they come!"
"Holy shit! Holy shit!!"
"I’ve done siege battles before, but nothing... nothing with this kind of realism! The pressure is insane!"
"FOR THE ALLIANCE!"
"Gods, is this what war is like? The ground is shaking!"
"Mike, you better move that makeshift soul anchor further back... I don’t want it getting flattened by the first wave!"
In stark contrast to the players’ mix of thrilling excitement and nervous terror, Alistair remained a pillar of absolute calm.
A thousand heavy orc infantry were not to be underestimated. Each was the equal of a human knight, if not superior. This was an open field, not the narrow confines of a fortress corridor. In such terrain, to be surrounded meant death, even for an Earth Knight.
And behind the orc line, the general himself watched from atop his massive warg, a predator waiting for his moment.
Besides, even if he and Thorne could fight their way out, their army would be devoured. What would be the point of that?
"One hundred paces!"
"Eighty paces!"
"Archers, ready..."
"FIRE!"
"Magic-users, fire at will!"
The militia in the main line drew and loosed, their arrows flying into the densely packed orc vanguard without need for precise aim. A storm of nearly a thousand arrows rained down on the goblins. With no armor to protect them, only simple bone knives and grass skirts, hundreds were felled in an instant.
Close behind the volley of arrows, a chaotic hail of rudimentary magic cast by the players erupted across the ice.