Warhammer competiton, STORY entries

[Jaycen]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]Witch Hunter Chronicles Chapter 3: Dare Pondus Idonea Fumo


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[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]Jaycen Hetzer-Brenner ploughed through the undergrowth of Morten Forest. Behind him in the distance smoke and light could be seen through the branches, an insidious reminder of the deed he had just been forced to commit. The town had been overrun with thralls of the vampire Jaycen was now hunting. He could not guarantee any of the populace were untainted. So he had to take the only course of action available to him. He had burnt the village to the ground. Tens of Sylvannian families crying into the night.[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]Still, there was a job to be done. The Vampire would pay for the fate of Morten. A Von Carstein vampire would not be skulking away in a tower, nor hiding in a cave. They would be lording over the countryside in the only dwelling that they would deem fitting – a castle. There was only one castle near Morten, and it had just become the prime target for some divine retribution.[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]Morten forest was as dank and dismal as the town it took its name from. The vegetation mostly comprised of thin-trunked trees, their pallid girth mirroring the night sky filled with ethereal clouds. Interspersed were the odd glade, some filled with dead trees and rotting stumps – as if the forest itself was ridden with disease. The Moon had lit up the night sky, making the cloud effervesce with a silvery glow which was enough for Jaycen to find his way through the undergrowth without the aid of a torch, but also pock-marked the small shrubs and bark around him with strange shadows that seemed to change around him as he walked.[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]It was this irregularity in light which first made him notice about some regularity in the forest. From behind seemed a uniform darkness. The distance did not seem to change no matter how far Jaycen walked; it was an oppressive presence in the current circumstances, and could mean only one thing – he was being followed.[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]Was it someone from the village? A survivor perhaps? No, Jaycen had been certain that the fires had taken hold quick enough that no one would escape the towering inferno the torches wrought. An agent of the Vampire in that case, the Vampire himself even? Jaycen prayed that his task would be made easier, but knew that would unlikely be the case. He would have to confront the abomination on its own territory. Still, that did not answer the question regarding who, or what was following him.[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]Jaycen had to plan. He needed space and his needed visibility. He would not be caught unaware by this pursuant. He had soon come to another small glade. The moonlit clouds made the damp grass that covered the glade glisten in the night. He would make his stand here. Making his way to the centre of the glade, Jaycen turned and waited. The dark shadow kept on coming, getting larger by the second. Why was the follower not changing their direction. Did they not care to be noticed?[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]The truth was far different. Out of the glade stepped another man! Warily he tumbled past the last vestiges of forest floor – clipping his foot on a wayward root exposed by a recent rain. Jaycen examined the man: Almost a head shorter than he was; the man had bright red hair. More in keeping with a Troll Slayer or a magister of the Bright College. He wore a single plate chest guard, but seemingly little other useful protection. The man seemed to be all about flamboyance. It was as if he wanted people to see him coming.[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]Jaycen looked at the garish clothing in more detail. Tan breeches seemed to be the only humble garment upon this man's person. On his feet were black leather boots, wrapped in protective gaiters that seemed to have been bleached. The man had sacrificed the purpose of gaiters – waterproofing – for a supposedly stylish look. He would have been regretting it now. The foot covers were coated with mud. Small measures of black leather still visible were dull, dirty and in some places scuffed. No doubt to the ire of the wearer, who Jaycen presumed would take a point to keep them as bright and shiny as Sigmar's comet.[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]Up from the breeches were a pair of bright yellow pantaloons, ornately embroidered – they were now torn in places and a damn site more weathered by the man's stalked path behind Jaycen. On top of the face framed by bright ginger hair and beard was a tall, wide-brimmed hat. The hat was nothing special, but it was also adorned a by huge plume, dyed in some exotic purple colour that no doubt was of foreign (Elven?) origin.[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]Jaycen wondered where this man got all the money to lavish such “discrete” clothing upon himself. Then he realised. It was the hat – something about it had triggered a familiarity in Jaycen. While not as useful or robust as the Templar's hat it did have one thing in common – the shape. This man was one of the Charlatans – men who were self-appointed “Witch Hunters” who did not have any jurisdiction or mandate from the Order or the Emperor. They preyed on towns, extracting any money they could from them in return for solving fictitious threats or even for just leaving the townsfolk alone.[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]The man looked up from his stumble into the glade. He seemed shocked to see Jaycen, and obviously thought himself a more skilled tracker than was the case.[/FONT]

“[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]I say! You there!” Began the imposter, “I could tell the work of another Witch Hunter from a mile away. Jolly good work back there – did the beggars not have enough to sate your purse?”[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]Jaycen stood, impassive. Allowing the man to dawdle closer.[/FONT]

“[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]Well, either way I was about to fleece the peasants myself. Looks like you beat me to it. I was wondering what the devil you were doing out here in the forest. It doesn't make an expedient getaway route. Do you have a camp out here or something. I could do with a brew and a rest after the journey I have had. What say you old boy, kinsmen's favour?”[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]The distance closed yet more. Jaycen said nothing.[/FONT]

“[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]Well I'll be damned say something man! The impertinence of it all. Speak up will you – cat got your tongue?!”[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]Jaycen finally allowed himself to speak. Swallowing his rage like so much bile, he chose his words carefully. “I, Sir, am not your kinsman. I am a Witch Hunter of Morr, sworn to protect the lands of this Great Empire from enemies without and within. I would rather cut out my own tongue than spend any amount of time acquiescing to a Charlatan. Let alone to some garishly dressed, wine drinking, ballroom dancing, Bretonnian-loving fairy such as yourself. You have no use nor worth in this world, 'cept for perhaps giving weight to smoke. Begone sir before I make an example of you."[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]The smile instantly faded from the man's face. He was not the fool that he made out to be. “ I see,” he continued, “well it seems we wont be having the quick and easy version of this. I was going to let you rest, drink and fall asleep before I pocketed your takings for my own. But is seems you are far too sanctimonious with a rod up your posterior for that to be the case.”[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]He pulled out a longsword tucked in the red sash around his waist. He raised it to point directly at Jaycen. “So, I'll be taking your purse if you please, as well as anything else that takes my fancy.”[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]Jaycen drew his rapier, the brass pommel glinting in the pale light. “ I don't think so.” The Templar took stance and awaited the imposter's advance. It came almost immediately. The ginger-haired man lunged first, attempting a quick and final resolution to the rally. Jaycen deftly turned the strike aside, countering with his own swipe. It was expertly parried aside. The Man circled, attempting to get better footing, allowing him to strike with ease. Jaycen attempted to answer the manoeuvring. Both men looking for any opening any weakness that would allow them to strike.[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]Cut, thrust, parries and ripostes. The duel was lightning quick and frantic, each man unwilling to give ground, each unwilling to lose face. This was a battle of ideology, as well as might. The men's intelligence under as much strain as sword arms. Jaycen tried, where possible to keep his sword in contact with his foe's. Allowing him to counter and parry in the same moves, not give his opponent a moment's respite to regroup or gain advantage.[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]The tactic paid off in full. The man was becoming frustrated, the jabs and thrusts became more desperate and rapid. More deadly, certain enough, but the aggressive posture allowed Jaycen to spot the opening. In one smooth motion he whisked his rapier around the blade of the longsword, sparks filling the air as the metals rubbed together. The move ended with a flick of the wrist, the longsword flying up into the air, landing into the sodden grass. Its hilt, shaped like a golden eagle, rocked back and forth in the night sky as the sword moved with the momentum of the impact.[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]The rapier, on the other hand, was now at the imposter's throat. The Charlatan held his arms wide in an attempt to stave off Jaycen's bloodlust. His hat had fallen to the floor in the disarm, exposing a pale clammy bald patch of hair amongst the red forest for the moon to shine upon.[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]Jaycen had no intentions of killing this man. One quick swipe and the man's purse had been removed from his person. The velvet bag expertly caught in Jaycen's spare hand.[/FONT]

“[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]This will do nicely, and may help to rebuild a village that had a more fortunate fate than Morten!”[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]Before the man had a chance to protest, Jaycen was upon him. Slamming the hilt of his sword onto the top of his head, the Charlatan crumpled into the earth. Unconscious. If he was lucky he would awake, and have to spend hour after hour making his way back to a semblance of civilisation. If he wasn't unlucky? Well, it was a full moon... who could say in woods like these?[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]Jaycen turned, Morten Castle peered through the gap in the tree line, the moon playing off the cold stone. His target was close, and it's hours numbered. He set off into the dark forest again, making a point to trample the hat and purple feather now cloying with mud on the floor.[/FONT]

[FONT=Calibri, sans-serif]Thanks for reading, and good luck to all!
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[N3M3S4S]

Outnumbered

Outnumbered
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Tightly shrouded in stiff canvas, Langley couldn't see anything. He choked and gagged on the thick, acrid smoke burning his lungs. He pulled frantically at the canvas, trying to disentangle himself, but as he bounced and tumbled along the ground, he couldn't make any headway gaining his liberty. The heat of flames close to his face ignited in his sense of panic. His weariness forgotten, he kicked and struggled madly as he gasped for air.

"Where are you?!"

It was General Rowland's voice. It sounded close, as if he, too, was being dragged along and strenuously engaged in his own fight for life. Langley's sword was trapped, pressed to his legs by the rolled canvas. He managed to wiggle his left hand up onto the knife at his belt. He yanked it free. He had to turn his face to try to keep away from the heat of the oily flames. The smothering smoky blindness was terrifying.

With angry resolve, Langley stabbed at the canvas, punching his knife through. Just then, the tent hit something and they were bounced into the air. The hard landing knocked the wind from his lungs. A gasp pulled in suffocating smoke. Again, Langley plunged his knife into the heavy canvas and slashed an opening as his entire shroud erupted into flame.

The tent hit something solid. His shoulder whacked hard into what felt like a tree stump and he was flipped up and over the top of it. Had he not been wearing his stiff leather armor, the blow surely would have broken his shoulder. Crashing down on the other side, Langley tumbled free and across the snow. He spred his arms to stop himself from rolling.

Langley saw General Rowland reach up, seize a fistful of chain mail, and unhorse the chaos marauder who had been dragging Langley's tent. The man's stout body was covered with hides and furs over chain mail and leather armor. He was missing his upper teeth. As he lunged at General Rowland, he lost his head too.

Yet more chaos marauders wheeled their big warhorses, striking down at the Empire soldiers scrambling both to escape the blows and to mount a defense. One of the warhorses charged Langley's way, its rider leaning out swinging a flail. Langley sheathed both his knife and sword. He snatched up the lance of the man who had been dragging the tent and brought the long weapon up and spun around just in time to plant the butt end in the ground and let the charging warhorse take the steeltipped point in his chest.

As the grinning chaos marauder with the flail leaped from the staggering horse, he drew his sword with his free hand. Langley didn't wait, as the marauder was still alighting on his feet, he spun while drawing his own sword and landed a solid backhanded blow across the left side of the marauders face. Without pause, he dove under the legs of another horse to dodge a blade when the horse's rider slashed down at him. He sprang up on the other side and hacked the rider's leg open to the bone twice before turning just in time to ram his sword up to its hilt into the chest of another horse sidling in, trying to crush him against the first. As the animal reared with a wild scream, Langley yanked his sword free and tumbled away just beofre the big horse crashed to the ground. The rider's lew was trapped, and he was at an akward angle to defend himself. Langley made the best of the opportunity.

For the moment, the immediate area was clear, enabling him to scramble over to the tent where General Rowland was on his knees, yanking at the snarled mess of canvas and rope. More chaos marauders were thundering past, threatening to trample Elder, one of the Warrior Priests, still trapped in the tangle of the tent. Langley worked beside General Rowland to tug and cut the canvas. At last they ripped open the heavy material, freeing Elder. Elder emerged from the cocoon and stumbled to his feet, still dizzy from the wild ride. Langley sezied him by the arm.

"I thought you said they were false alarms!"

"They were!" Elder insisted. "Obviously, they tricked us."

All around, soldiers were engaged in pitched battle with the marauder horsemen. Men shouted in fury as they threw themselves in battle; some screamed as they were wounded or killed; others called out orders, commanding a defense, while the men on horseback ordered in their attack.

Some of the cavalry were setting fire to wagons, tents, and supplies. Others charged past, trampling men and tents. Pairs of riders teamed up to single out soldiers and take them down, then charged after another victim. When a marauder, draped in filthy fur and weapons, cried out in bravado as he rushed at Langley wielding a raised mace studded with glistening bloody spikes, Langley took his hand off with a lightning-swift blow. The marauder staggered to a stop and stared at him in surprise. Without missing a beat, he drove his sword into his gut and gave it a wrenching twist before pulling it free. Langley turned his attention elsewhere as the marauder crashed down atop a fire. His screams melted in with the others. Langley saw Elder, nearby, dealing out crippling melee attacks on the marauders with his hammer while protecting allies from harm with his power. Langley could almost see his righteous fury grow, his attacks getting more fierce.

Langley and General Rowland turned to a fresh charge of marauder horsemen. As one marauder galloped in close, wielding his lance around, General Rowland dodged teh strike and then leaped up onto the side of the horse, catching hold of the saddle's horn. With a grunt of angry effort he drove his sword through the rider. The surprised marauder clawed at the blade in his soft middle. General Rowland yanked his sword free, then grabbed the man by the hair and dragged him out of the saddle. As the dying marauder fell away, General Rowland sprang into the saddle, in his place. Langley snatched up the fallen horseman's lance.

The big general wheeled the huge horse into the way of charging marauder horsemen. Langley sheathed his sword and used the lance to good effect against the warhorses. Horses, even well-trained warhorses, didn't appreciate being stabbed in the chest. As horses bucked and reared when Langley stabbed them with the lance, many of the riders fell. Some were injured from the fall onto the scattered equipment, but most came under the swarming counterattack of the Empire forces.

From atop his warhorse, General Rowland commanded his men to form a defensive line. After directing them into place, he carged off, roaring a string of orders as he went. Empire soldiers grabbed up the enemy lances, or came running with their own pikes, and soon there was a bristling line of steel-tipped pole weapons presenting a deadly obstacle to any approaching cavalry. Langley called out orders to men on either side, and, as he joined the line, commanded them into position to block an marauder horsemen unit of about two hundred who were trying to make good their escape. The marauder's horses balked when they encountered a solid line of advancing pikes brandished by men shouting battle cries. Soldiers coming from behind the marauders rained down arrows. Other Empire troops dragged trapped marauders from their saddles, down into the bloody hand-to-hand fighting on the ground.

"I don't want one of them escaping camp alive!" Langley yelled to his men. "No mercy!"

"No mercy!" every soldier within earshot called out in answer.

The enemy, so confident and arrogant as they had charged in, relishing the prospect of spilling Empire blood, were now nothing more than pathetic men in the ungainly grip of despair as the Empire troops hacked them to death.

General Rowland returned, charging trough the line of Empire soldiers as they parted for him. He leaped from his enemy warhorse. The young general crouched down in front of Langley. Winded, he started talking anyway.

"I've been down checking with the front lines. This raid looked bigger than it really was. The damage was mostly focused in this section."

"Why didn't we know?" Langley asked. "What went wrong with the alarm?"

"Not sure." He was shaking his head still getting his breath. "It gets worse. This horsemen attack was just a diversion. It was meant to make us believe it was just a raid."

Langley felt his flesh go cold with dread. "They're coming, aren't they?"

He nodded. "The entire force. They're still a distance out, but you're right, they're coming. This was just to throw us into confusion and keep us distracted."

Langley stared dumbfounded. The main force should still be at least a couple a days away. The prospect of the onslaught of hundreds of thousands upon hundred of thousands of chaos troops storming in from the darkness was bloodcurdling.

"How far is our reinforcements from here?" Elder asked. "Their numbers would help.

"Too far," General Rowland answered, "they can't get here in time to help us tonight. But we could fall back on our other plans - about breaking up and scattering into the mountains."

"If we did that," Langley said, "we would have to abandon most of our supplies. In winter, without supplies, a number of our men wouldn't last long. Either way, killed in battle or dying of hunger and cold - you're just as dead. That's a last resort. It may work later, but not now. From now, we need to keep the army together if we're to survive the winter - and if we're to keep the chaos vermin distracted from its designs at conquest." Langley gestured over his shoulder. "What about that valley we talked about, back there?" The high pass is narrow - it can be defended on this side by two men and a dog, if need be."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Elder asked. "Let's get moving."

General Rowland gave him a worried look. "The problem right now is that if we're to make it into that valley before the chaos horde can pounce on us, we're going to need more time to do it. The pass is too narrow for wagons. The horses can make it, but not the wagons - they'll have to be dismantled. It won't take long to get started, but we're going to need time to funnel all the men and supplies over that narrow pass - especially in the dark."

Langley stared out in the dark toward the oncoming horde. "We'll burn them."

The genereal screwed up his face. "We'll what?"

"We got two talented brigth wizards," Langley said, "we'll lay out a trace of oil. In the darkness they will take it for muddy ground and won't notice anything out of the ordinary before the flames engulfs them. The wizards should be able to maintain the fire long enough to buy us the time we need."

"If we just run for the hills," Elder said, "we are as good as dead. Better to try, than to die one at a time out in the mountains."

"I'll make sure barrels of oil is prepared." General Rowland said before he left.

---
​

As Langley collected his horse, he heard a horse approaching at gallop. In the dark there was no doubt about the rider. The fire atop of his staff made sure of that.

"They're coming," the wizard announced without preamble.

"How long till they get here?" Langley asked.

"Ten minutes."

That thin sliver of time was the only bulwark between them and catastrophe.

"We've no choice, now." The wizard gazed off into the darkness, perhaps seeing what only a wizard could see. "Start laying out the trace now. We'll just hope for the best. I have messengers with me; I'll send word to General Rowland."

"When we ride out with the oil we will be close to the enemy," Langley said, "we need a diversion."

"Put your trust in your bright wizards, Lord Langley, we'll create a diversion."

"What will you do?"

The wizard made a grim, cunning grin, "Nothing fancy, this time. No clever devious tricks, like they no doubt expect. This time, we'll give them a good old-fashioned firefight.Tell the men to keep an eye to their right side, as they ride. I don't want them to get in the way of what I mean for the enemy. They must also watch for what their magicians surely will try to counter with."

As the wizard departed, General Rowland came rushing to Langley eight big horses each with two men and a big barrel strapped to the side.

"These men are ready to carry out your orders." General Rowland said while halting his own horse.

"I'll lead one of the horses myself."

General Rowland was about to protest, but when he saw the determination in Langley's eyes he changed his words to: "Let me at least come with you."

---
​

Langley stuffed a boot in the stirrup, grabbed the saddle horn, and sprang up into his seat. The cold leather creaked as he leaned over and held a down in order to help General Rowland up. Langley motioned with his arm, signaling to the riders to start out. As Langley raced forward he realized for the first time that, in the distance, he could hear the collective yells of hundreds of thousands of chaos troops. the countless voices fused into one continous roar as their attack drew ever closer. It almost sounded like the moan of an ill wind through a canyon's rocky fangs.

As Langley drove the horse forward, he let his anger build. Anger made a better warrior than fear. Langley fed that anger with images of all the devastion, suffering and mayhem he had seen creatures committed to chaos do to innocent people. He let the memories of all the bodies he had seen pass through his mind. He rembered the women he had seen wailing over murdered children, husbands sisters, brothers, mothers and fathers. He rembered strong men in helpless anguish over the senseless slaughter of their friends and loved ones.

"It's time." Langley said trough gritted teeth. Without looking back over his shoulder, he asked, "Are you ready?".

The enemy was close now and getting close while General Rowland dumped the oil in a straight line. The enemy troops was coming towards them screaming for blood. There was no telling precisely how far the horde had already advanced, or, with the moonlight behind them, even their own exact direction. The night suddenly ignited with harsh yellow light. The clouds went from gray to bright yellow-orange. White snow blazed with garish color. An awful droning sound vibrated deep under Langley's ribs.

A hundred feet in front of her and maybe ten feet above the ground, tumbling liquid yellow and blue light roared headlong across her route, dripping honeyed fire, trailing billowing black smoke. The seething sphere of the wizard's fire vividly illuminated the ground benath it as it shot past. Even though not directed at him, the sound alone was enough to make Langley ache to cringe away in dread.

Then, in the light of that bright flame streaking across the valley floor, Langley caught sight of the horde, all with swords, maces, flails, axes, pikes, and lances raised in the air as they yelled their battle cries. The men and beasts, grim, daunting, fierce, were all in the grip of a wild lust for the fight as they ran headlong out of the night.

In the moonlight, Langley could see for the first time since he had joined up with the army the full extent of the enemy forces. The reports had told the story, but could not fully convey the reality of the sight. The numbers were so far removed from his experience as to defy comprehension. Eyes wide, jaw hanging open, Langley gasped in awe.

Langley realized with alarm that the enemy was much closer than she had expected. The undulating leading edge, bristling shields and spears, threatened to close of their path. General Rowland yelled, that he had dumped all the oil. Langley used his right heel, back against his horse's flank, to guide it to the right - away from the oncoming horde. He realized, as arrows zipped past and spear plunged to the ground beside them, that in light of the wizards' fire, the enemy could see them too.

In a safe distance Langley brought the horse to a halt. He only noticed a little flicker of light hitting one edge of the trace of oil before a wall of fire erupted in from of him. An endless moan of frightened agony began rising up with the flames, growing in intensity. Running burning men and beast alike fell over one another. Some swung their swords at the fire as if they could fight it, hacking instead their fellow soldiers.

The progress of the men at the front slowed to a crawl. Soldiers kept coming, colliding with the stalled front line. Horses panicked, bucking off riders. Spooked horses ran in every direction, oblivious of the men they trampled. Racing wagons overturned. Confusion swept the enemy's ranks. The advance buckled. The horde ground to a halt. The two bright wizards on the safe side of the wall of fire, concentrating to maintain the burning as long as possible.

Langley felt filled with relief, though he knew, that this would only be a minor setback for the chaos horde.

 

[ReaperOfSouls]

Siege

The human commander surveyed the plains from atop the keep's battlements. It was peaceful. The river that ran past its walls made a soothing sound that he could only barely hear above the noise of his men in the keep, but it was there. In the distance he could make out a forest of pine trees, their tops were gently in the wind. Most men standing on top of a newly taken fort like that, gazing out at their conquest, would be smiling, but he wasn't. His gaze remained steady on the trees. The top of one of the trees was swaying more violently now. After a few seconds of increasing fragility, it fell. The commander spat. Siege engines. The damn orcs were cutting down the trees to make siege engines. He would know, for he and his men had done the exact same thing only weeks earlier, when they had captured the fort in the first place.
The campfires of the orcish fires sent endless trails of smoke into the air, unafraid of who might see them. They knew their forces were greater than any the Empire had in the area.
To the commander's right someone was approaching. One of his scouts, he knew, there to tell him something he already had known for a long time.
The man stopped a few feet away from the commander, and turned to follow his gaze. He was silent for a moment.
"Six hundred", he said plainly. "Maybe more."
Commander Garret took a short, shallow breath and held it. In other men it might have been a gasp, but he never gasped. Never.
They stood watching the trees, another had begun to sway violently.
"Spread the word, Pip", Garret said plainly.
The man nodded and walked off slowly.
No use in hiding it from the men, he knew. They would know how many orcs they would be facing as soon as they got up on those walls to defend them, so they might as well hear from him rather than see it with their own eyes.
Garret spat.
"Damn", he said to himself.
Damn this fort. Damn this capaign, damn the orcs and damn the Empire.
He winced as his thoughts formed around the last name in that list. No. Not the Empire, but damn the rest.
The fort had never been held by any faction for longer than a couple of months. It was too close to the borders, too far away from help and too small to defend properly.
Six hundred Orcs, he thought bitterly, to his sixty-seven men. Most of whom were still wounded.
A calm swept over him. They will all die there, he knew. Help was far, ammunition was low and his men were few. They would die.
He did not feel anger, could not feel it at that moment. Only sorrow. A deep, drenching sorrow that threatened to suffocate him right there, long before the Orcs would get a chance to. How they could have made a difference elsewhere! How many battles could have been turned by the presence of sixty-seven men? How many lives saved? He gripped the wall in front of him until his knuckles went white.
Yet there was a purpose, he knew. This fort could not be given up permanently to the enemy. They could not have a foothold here, for then they could easily strike further East, where great tracts of farmland fed half of the Empire.
So they must play musical chairs, and they must die.
So be it. He spat.

Garret descended the ladder to the main part of the fort below. There was not enough room for everyone inside the battlements, so many had had to make themselves comfortable outside. Although many were injured, none looked sad or pathetic. The news of the Orcs had not made them cower. Nor had it, as far as he could see, made them as scared as it had just made him moments earlier. He felt a pang of shame, and a surge of pride.
He walked to the middle of the clearing, right next to the only well that supplied the keep. The eyes were of all his men were on him. He turned slowly, exchanging a look with each and every one of them.
"Men", he said loudly, purposefully.
"Prepare."

Someone was shouting, but he couldn't hear what. He was already on his feet, but Garret's brain was still clinging stubbornly to sleep, not willing to make sense of the words he was hearing.
He grabbed his sword and kicked at the door, which swung open without protest. Sleeping in his armour had not been comfortable, but he had done it many times before. He ignored the thought that suddenly came to him: he would never do so again.
His mind was focused now, taking in the sight of his men rapidly climbing ladders to the ramparts. Others were preparing the only catapult the fort could fit, placing huge rocks in the leather sling of the machine. The wood and leather groaned in protest, but held.
"Siiiiiieeegggeeeee!" the shout came again.
Garret followed his men up the ladder. When he reached the top he looked over the walls. The Orcs were approaching from all sides, but most of their forces were concentrated on the side of the keep that held the huge wooden gates, and only entrance, to the fort.

His instincts immediately told him to gather his men to defend the gates, but he resisted. He looked down at the dozen archers that stood in the middle of the courtyard, facing the inside of the gates. They wouldn't be enough, he knew. But they would do.
"Fire!" He shouted to the catapult operators.
A dull twang rang out as the machine lobbed its cargo into the air and at the enemy.
They were basically shooting blind, but the huge boulder still did its job. It made the ground shake when it landed, killing at least five Orcs. The men were hastily reloading. They would only get a couple of shots off, they knew, before the fort was breached. But they were going to make every shot count.
Ladders were going up against all of the fort's walls, and the orcs were determinedly climbing them. Arrows rang out from the men on the walls, while others tried to push the ladders back into the crowd of Orcs gathering around the keep. Because most of the men were on the battlements, they could keep the ladders at bay and still dodge the arrows and bolts flying up a them from the enemy. Soon enough the Orcish Commander became impatient, as Garret had hoped he would. He ordered all his forces to break down the gates.

The gates were not very strong, and would not withstand even a mild pummeling for long. After seven tries the ram burst through the doors, and Orcs started pouring through. But their roars of rages quickly became squeals of pain as they fell, impaling themselves on the sharpened stakes that the men had placed in the trap pit. It had taken them all night to dig it, but it was working perfectly. The archers were now furiously unleashing their arrows into the oncoming orcs, striking them down even before they reached the pit. Those that did not fall to arrows fell to the pit. It was too wide for them to jump, and they had no other choice but to fall in as the surge of Orcs from behind pushed them onward.

It was a deep pit, and could hold many Orcs. But not six hundred. Faster than Garret could have ever imagined, the pit was full of dead enemy troops, and their companions were using them as a bridge. They must have killed at least fifty defending the gates, but the enemy was through. A rage overtook Garret, and he leapt off the ramparts into the courtyard. Most of his men did the same now, abandoning the walls, allowing Orcs to start getting in through that way as well. No matter, Garret thought. No matter. The fighting was bloody and confusing, with everyone simply hacking at eveything in their way. The Orcs on the ramparts were shooting arrows into the crows below now, killing humans and Orcs alike. Garret slashed at an Orc that was attacking one of his men, slicing his arm off at the shoulder. He turned on another and sliced off half of his skull. He was about to engage with another when he felt something wet in his throat. He reached up to feel an arrow piercing straight through his neck. Before he could process the thought another hit his chest. He sank to his knees, cursing, and for one last time, spat.


The Orcish commander surveyed the plains from atop the keep's battlements. It was peaceful.

 

[mars]

A welcome aid

"A coin for the ill-fortuned?", a faint voice interrupted his train of thought, producing a blank, second long stare even
the dimmest of orcs would be proud of. "A coin it is little fellow". He protruded his hand and dropped a copper coin
into the tiny hand that anticipated it. A faint light sparkled in the youth's eyes as she gripped the coin, her
tiny fists clasping in a way that's almost screaming «Ha, Victory!». This brought a smile to the wizard's face, complementing
his worn out figure with an unexpected but most certainly welcome breath of life. The youth fled across the street and in the midst of all the excitement, almost fell
awkwardly trying to circle around a shabby looking cottage. It was a scene that, on another day, might've caused a moment's unease, but today it only served to further rejoice and youngen the wizards already reborn complexity.

Moments later, Alren rose up to his feet, a slight pain echoing throughout his body, as if reminding him just how much time had passed since he'd occupied the town hall's wooden porch. Judging by the sky above it was late noon, for even though the gray rainy clouds had swarmed the endless blue, there was just enough of yellow star's radiance breaking through to keep their efforts in vain. The wizard threw his gaze onto this afternoon battle, and unconsciously refusing his nature to question even this most basic of nature's graces, he exhaled a breath of moment's relief and quietly made his way to the town halls entrance. Only a low pitch clamor greeted him in the hallways, it's noise rising with the almost rythmic sound of his feet trudging the wooden pavement. Few seconds later, as the clamor finally stopped it's rose, he entered a small room located to his left. He found himself facing a group of people, all of whom were dressed in some sort of basic ceremonial cloth, their sloped figures circled around a sole persona placed on a chair in the middle of the room.

There was a moment of silence, their faces now focused on the white wizard's serene figure.
A young woman delicately stood up, and quietly, as if not to awaken the person whose mind was in question, left the room with her gaze set firmly in front of her, ignoring the wizard's imposing figure as she walked past him. A few moments later, and with same dedication and one might say expertise, others soon followed to leave the small room.
Alren crouched to face the fallen figure, his words echoing silently in the now abandoned hallways: "I am Alren of Hysh", with these words a faint light declared a growing presence in his eyes, and with natural serenity and confidence he welcomed the gaze of a daemon, a presence that had haunted the fallen figure in front of him, "And i've come to aid you".

 

[Jupitus]

Thank you all for your entertaining entries! This thread is now closed for judging