Grimes gripped his axe handle nervously. The adrenaline of the first clash no longer surged through his veins, replaced with cold anticipation of the battle to come. To the west, he could see storm clouds the color of gabbro advancing, their gray fringes already starting to hide the sun. To the east, he knew that two squads of orcs lingered, their savagery barely contained by the cunning of their commanders. Waiting, he knew, to force the dwarves to come to them and fight them far from the gates, without the benefit of their fortifications and bridge.
The sweat under his armor, once welcome in the summer heat, grew clammy as the clouds rolled in. He could see the squad commanders standing in a huddle, their heads bowed together in urgent discussion. The Tooninator would be suggesting a frontal rush, he knew, and Workerdrone would be agreeing wholeheartedly. Flint would be urging caution and tactics, supported by Tirist. He sat down to watch a colony of ants pick over an orc head, the mouth hanging open in an eternal scream of rage as the ants swarmed over the it, the empty eye sockets seeming to glare at the living world with hatred. He poked the head with his axe, rolling it away from him as the ants scattered. He hoped that the commanders would come to a decision soon, anything would be better than waiting.
He had been late to the last battle, stationed under Workerdrone at the gates, and hadn't charged until the battle had already been joined. It was probably for the better, he thought, as he reflected on the sight of the champions charging the orcish archers, their shields turning away dozens of otherwise-lethal arrows. His own shield was still heavy on his arm, and a charge against archers required that the soldier trust absolutely in his strength, speed, and skill. One day he would be there, he knew, but today was not that day. His shield was still heavy on his arm, he still struggled to deflect even all of the strikes against him during sparring practice.
Flint's call to assemble cut through his thoughts like the axe that had severed the head, and Grimes hurried over to the commander's circle with the rest of the army.
"The attack will be in two forks." Flint was saying. "I will lead my and Workerdrone's squads to the north, facing the lancers. The Tooninator will lead his and Tirist's squads to engage the archers in the east. It is crucial that we strike at the same time, so that neither squad has a chance to flee. We must kill both leaders if we want to ensure the safety of the dwarven caravan this autumn."
The squads were quickly in position, as close as they dared to the waiting squads of orcs. The humidity was getting worse, and Grimes knew that rain was coming soon. The inside of his armor was uncomfortably slick with moisture, something that the muggy air did nothing to improve. Flint raised his axe and ordered the squads forward, and Grimes charged behind him, raising his axe high and shouting a war cry as they rushed towards the orcish lancers.
The lancers responded in kind, rushing forward to engage the charging dwarves. Grimes saw an orc steering her beak dog towards him and slowed, raising his shield to protect himself against the mounted charge. As he expected, the spear landed heavily on his shield, the tip blunting and sliding off the fine dwarven steel of his shield. He shifted it slightly, hearing the beak dog's claws skitter ineffectively off it as he drove forward with the shield, feeling the beak dog unbalance and fall. His axe fell in a swift downward stroke, parting skin and muscle to lay open a grievous wound in the beak dog's side as the beat struggled to get back on its feet. The beast shrieked in pain and fell to the ground as Grimes turned his attention to the orc.
Grimes and the orc circled the dying beak dog, the orc holding her spear in front as she probed for an opening past Grime's shield and Grimes unwilling to open himself to the orc's longer weapon by attacking. Moments dragged on, each step by one matched by the other. The point of the black iron spear waving idly at its reflection in the shield, the blade of the gray steel axe held low and steady, the top of its blade nearly touching the ground.
The beak dog, in a final, reckless act of courage, suddenly lunged at Grimes. His shield dropped quickly to block the body, and the orc lunged, the blunted point striking Grimes in the helmet and deflecting, but leaving him dizzy with a ringing in his ears. He frantically swung with his axe, the low arc nicking the orc's leg as she withdrew, and Grimes stepped back to give himself space while his head cleared. The two resumed their circling as the beak dog coughed its final blood and collapsed on the warm stone of the mountainside.
"She's overeager." thought Grimes. "She'll strike if I give her an opening." He thought about the execution: He'd lower the shield as the orc charged, taking the spear blow on his armor and getting a clean shot into the orc's unarmored head. The steel plate would protect him. He just had to lower the shield. Give up a bit of his defense to end the battle. Trust in his armor, in his axe. "It won't get through, the tip is already blunt." he thought to himself. "I've got the skills to end this now." Still he circled. "The strike won't hurt any worse than the one I just took. It'll give me a good strike." Another step to the left, matched immediately by the orc across from him. "'Chop! Thunk!'. No more orc! Only a minor bruise!". A pause, then a step to the right. The orc matched his movements. "Maybe I'll even swing in early. Hit her before she even gets the strike in." A step forward, a step back. "Anything is better than waiting."
Finally convinced, Grimes lowered his shield, feinting exhaustion. As expected, the orc lunged for his heart, and he quickly brought his axe up to swing. He felt the tip of the spear slam into his breastplate, and felt himself be pushed backwards by the force, but he pivoted to let the spear slide past him, bringing his left arm up to trap the black shaft in the plates of his elbow as his axe came around, striking the orc in the jaw. The steel sliced easily through skin and bone, leaving the orc's jaw dangling from her throat. With a tug on the spear, he unbalanced the orc and sent her sprawling to the ground. A step to the right, another swing with his axe, and the orc lay dead at his feet, her hand still gripping the spear that he had trapped.
Grimes stood, shaking with released tension. He cautiously felt his armor where he had been struck, his fingers finding the thin scars on the metal where the spear had twice been deflected. He was amazed that his plan had worked, that he was not lying on the ground hoping for rescue before the pain seized him. That he had killed an orc, not in the frenzy of combat but with tactics and foresight. Around him, the battle was dispersing, the orcs fleeing from the battlefield as the slain littered the ground, their blood coloring the rocks a dark and sticky crimson.
Dwarves were gathering again, slapping each other on the back as they recounted kills and celebrated their victory. Flint was ordering them to guard positions to ensure that no thieving kobolds could make off with orcish equipment before the civilians could gather it inside the fortress. He could see Shoruke standing with some of the champions of the Elder Banners, proudly displaying the blood on her war-pick. He wandered over to the rest of Workerdrone's squad, all busy congratulating on surviving another battle, just as Workerdrone was announcing that when they got off-duty, they'd have to head to the dining room for a round of drinks and a round of tales. He stood mutely among them as the fear and adrenaline drained from his body, leaving his arms and legs feeling like they were made of lead. But in their place, they left a strange new feeling, the feeling of confidence. Not the confidence of the champions, standing tall like a mighty oak on a mountaintop, able to face anything without flinching. A tiny seed, that might grow to such heights given nourishment. The very beginnings of what he could not learn in a lifetime of sparring. He barely jumped at all when the first stroke of lightning split the sky, warm summer rain pouring down to wash the sweat and blood of the battle away.
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Xanares: I'm sure we've got someone that will suit you, I'll post it as soon as I can. It's too late for this battle, but there will always be more (or I have to go fix the orcs). It's certainly not too late for Lanternwebs to accept more people.
Gumball: I don't really feel comfortable asking for legendary status for Lanternwebs (legends being decided by the people, not the author), though I noticed that Flint already mentioned it for possible inclusion there.
Final battle statistics (no kill counts, sorry):
39 out of 48 orcs killed, with 34 beak dog kills. Two losses, both champions. 148 assorted non-corpse body parts on the field after the battle.
After-battle images (since they didn't fit into the story at all)
No movie of the second part, unfortunately. It was two simultaneous battles across 8 or so z-levels, and the movie that I took resisted all of my attempts to turn it into something watchable.
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Topic: Lanternwebs (The End!) (Read 80409 times)