Deadly Intentions (Blood Feud - Volume 2) (12 page)

She had been told that one of her more
powerful sisters had made a gift of a fine axe and shield for the
Legate
, only to have him discard the weapon in favor of his
own crude version. Her sister had sighed, regretting the effort
taken in creating the fine items, and instead had imbued his own
weapons with her magic.

Such strange behavior aside, the orcs were
willing and eager to perform even the darkest missions. They asked
only one thing in return, should their forces encounter any elves
or dwarves, the orcs wanted to be the only ones to kill them. It
was a strange request, as no one in memory had seen and elf or a
dwarf; their races were believed long dead and gone. Still, it
satisfied their only demand, so it was agreed upon with great
enthusiasm.

With the failure of
The Bane
a year
ago, the other sects in the Congress of Weavers had pushed for more
mobilization and an end to operating in cells. Cyrisa was charged
with showing that the old ways still worked more effectively, and
her cell was to be the beacon light for the traditionalists in the
congress. She hoped that Boris could live up to his potential and
crush the whelp Prince and his petty band.

Today the King planned to take his army into
the field of battle and defeat the Valliusians, kill their Prince
and lay siege to Kenting. It was an ambitious plan, but with over
fifty thousand men, orcs, trolls and other less savory creatures,
it was well within the realm of possibility. The night before
Cyrisa had added the Gerdium as usual to the King’s mead last night
and while he dozed she had outlined her battle plan for him to
follow.

With the traditionalists depending on her,
she couldn’t rely on the King’s skills in battle; she needed to
take a personal hand in the outcome. As she walked at a respectful
distance behind his horse, she used her arts to observe the army
around her. The orcs were blood thirsty; the trolls were scared -
though they were more terrified by the orcs so they stood their
ground – the humans were ready and the other creatures minds were
just to alien to glean much more than excitement. The sun was
breaking through the snow clouds and allowing waves of heat and
light through and onto the battlefield before her.

Using her skills she focused her attention to
the walls of the fort. It was easy to spot the dragon spawn Prince,
dressed in his ridiculous black dragon scale armor. She was sure he
cut a heroic figure to the fools he led, but all of his victories
had come at the hands of others stupidity. Cyrisa seethed and the
King slipped out of her control briefly, making his ludicrous
demand.

“Quit the walls and pack up your belongings.
If you’re not on the road back to Kenting in the next hour I’ll
burn that fort down around you and slaughter you all down to the
last cooks’ monkey.” He ordered.

Quickly regaining control over his mind she
forced him to lean over so she could re-assert her instructions.
You will send your catapults and trolls to the front to offer
cover fire for your cavalry.
She ordered motioning forward with
her arm.

Then a distant roar echoed across the
horizon. Instincts took over as she instantly wove her arms above
her head and erected her defenses. Another roar sounded and the
damned fool of a King got off his horse and began punching her
shield in desperation. She ignored him as a third roar cut through
the air. Turning her gaze to the fort walls she focused her sight,
catching the quiver of the bowstring as the Prince fired an
arrow.

Laughing to herself she pulled a little power
to herself and cast a lazy fireball towards the on-coming arrow.
Her eyes widened in shock as the arrow cleared the fireball
unharmed; she focused her power, strengthening her defenses. The
arrow didn’t slow its flight at all as it cleared her defenses as
though they weren’t even there and it pierced her shoulder, sending
her spinning around to the ground.

Shock ran through her chest and she drew in a
ragged breath as she got shakily to her knees. Cyrisa put her right
hand to the protruding shaft of the arrow. Her hand weakly grasped
the arrow as she looked up at the King who slowly drew his sword
and swung it in a powerful arc. Cyrisa screamed as she felt the
blade bite into her neck.

~

“Bitch!” King Boris yelled as Cyrisa’s head
flew from her shoulders. Blood shot up from her gaping severed neck
in bursts. As the life faded from her scheming body, the spurts
became less frequent and lower. Finally the muscles relaxed as her
body fell over to the side. The stench of her filth filled his
nostrils as he pointed his blood soaked blade towards the fort
walls and screamed, “Attack!”

~

“Hold.” Tristan said calmly holding up his
hand.

The mercenaries were the first to come
rushing at the wall and Tristan wondered to himself why the orcs
and trolls held back. Time didn’t permit him the leisure to look
around and find them though as all of his attention was on the sea
of men about to come crashing about his walls.

“Hold.” Tristan called again needlessly.

The first of the mercenaries crossed the line
the catapults could launch to, marked by cleverly hidden markers
that only the defenders or someone on this side of the rocks could
see. Still the Prince waited, he wanted the men as close as they
could get before he would order the catapults to launch their
damaging ordinance.

The last of the forward element crossed the
marker rocks and Tristan lowered his arm, shouting for the
catapults to fire. Looking to his right and then his left he
ordered the archers to draw and pick targets. The caltrops flew
over the fort walls, landing in a scattered mess between the marker
rocks and the walls.

Tristan watched in morbid fascination as the
first men trampled on the caltrops, lost their balance and screamed
out in pain and fell forward onto yet more of them. Thousands of
men lay bloodied and cleaved as the more cautious limped out,
pulling the iron crosses out of their boots as they went.

“Didn’t think it would work that well.”
Sergeant-Major Frose commented with a chuckle at Tristan’s
side.

“Well it’s earned us at least a little
reprieve.” The Prince grunted.

“We’ve had word from the north.” Frose
said.

“How goes the battle up there?” Tristan asked
as he looked out over the field. Already Boris’ men ran out to drag
the survivors unable to walk out of harm’s way. The others were
using their shields to create paths of safety to haul the dead off
to the pyres already being constructed to the south. The black
smoke already rising from their locations made Tristan wonder if
the King had executed more men in anger.

“It goes well.” Frose grunted. “The Colonel
reports that he had to drive off a few squads of orcs before he
could clear the gates, repair them and seal them off.” He reported.
“Already legions of orc infantry throw themselves uselessly against
the impregnable walls.”

“Gotta love fifty feet of brick, mortar and
iron.” Tristan chuckled.

“Yes sir.” Frose laughed in reply.

An unearthly horn sounded as the orcs formed
up into a line. Trolls pulled long harrows, gathering up the last
of the caltrops and disposing of them in a large pile as the
snarling orcs made ready to charge. Troll engineers rolled
catapults and battering rams forward as ogres followed, saddled up
like draft animals, hauling carts full of large stones up to the
siege engines.

“Things are about to get much more
interesting.” The Prince commented. “Get the first three legions
out the back gate and ready to repulse sappers.” Tristan
ordered.

Sergeant-Major Frose saluted and walked away
as the largest orc Tristan had ever seen elbowed his way through
the press of unwashed bodies and roared in contempt of the fort.
Behind him the thousands of orcs roared with him.

The Prince was confused, before him stood an
orc that was taller than he was, easily twice as broad and was
grotesquely muscled. The others behind him were smaller, hunched
over green versions of their leader. Tristan considered that it
must be why the largest was the leader; he knew orcs weren’t
exactly intelligent from the siege in Heatherington last year. They
seemed to largely depend on their size, ferocity and willingness to
throw themselves at their enemies.

The large leader howled and the orcs got into
a straight line on either side of them. Another howl and they
brought their shields to bear as a unit. He growled and they moved
forward at a much slower pace than the humans had.

“Well this could get interesting.” Tristan
muttered darkly. He turned to the page and ordered him to prepare
his horse. He didn’t want to risk felling his own men, so as he
walked past the engineers he ordered them to switch to rocks and
fire at will. As he mounted Pava the three legions were already
heading out of the rear gate. He signaled to the 7
^th
to
form up on horseback and get underway.

Tristan heard the first rounds being launched
from the catapults as he headed through the gate. The first three
legions were ready to move forward, so he ordered one to stand
ready as reinforcements and the other two arrayed along either side
of the 7
^th
as they wheeled around at a trot and made
their way around the fort to engage the enemy.

~

The battle had gone poorly. For the last
three days and nights Tristan had to struggle to keep fresh
soldiers on the front lines. There seemed to be no end to the orcs
as their ugly faces just kept popping up in front of his shield.
Pava had been cut from underneath him just a few hours ago and his
anger gave him renewed spirit as he decapitated three orcs with one
swing. So much was his pain that when he ordered the reserves
forward, he stood fast, becoming a terror in the midst of the
battle. He forced his anger into grim determination and focused his
rage, as he spared no creature.

Then the unearthly horn blew again and the
orcs pulled back twenty feet. He could smell their fetid breath,
the blood that soaked the ground at his feet and the sweat from his
own men as they caught their breath in great rattling heaves. He
held his arm up and called for them to stand firm as a few of them
began to inch their way forwards.

Both forces stood twenty feet apart while
they caught their breath. The orcs growled and flinched as they
struggled to maintain control over their bloodlust, such was their
desire to fight. Tristan’s men began to breathe normally as his
veterans prepared themselves for attack. Then Tristan saw it, the
enormous orc, elbowing his way through his soldiers, growling and
gnashing his teeth. The Prince lowered his shield and stood up
straight as the orc cleared his lines and came to stand halfway
between the two armies.

Tristan cracked his neck, moving his head
from one shoulder to the next. He took a steadying breath and
bounded three times on the balls of his feet. He tried to loosen
his muscles as much as possible, knowing that the large orc would
probably knot his shoulders up something awful when Tristan tried
to defend himself with his shield. Out of the corner of his mouth
he said,

“If he kills me, don’t wait, just charge and
kill them all.” He ordered to the nearest soldier.

The battle scared veteran nodded once back
saying. “Aye my Lord.”

The Prince stepped forward, coming to a halt
mere feet away from the orc. He could smell the stink of human
blood all over the beast’s armor and his tattooed face was covered
in it as well.

“You fight well human.” He offered.

“What do you want?” Tristan asked, narrowing
his eyes. He hadn’t realized orcs could speak, let alone his
language as well as one born to it.

“Single combat.” He grunted.

“Single…you and me?” Tristan asked in
shock.

“Unless you’re scared, puny Prince.” The orc
shot back.

Tristan bristled at the insult, but he’d long
ago given up his childish need to take every insult as a personal
slur on his honor. Surely this giant among orcs would know
that.

“Listen horse breath.” Tristan replied with a
sarcastic smirk. “If you want to face me, you need only ask. You
didn’t have to sacrifice so many…soldiers.” He said with
contempt.

“Careful dragon spawn, those could be the
last insults you throw.” The orc leader warned.

The Prince narrowed his eyes, the fact that
this orc could even understand what a dragon spawn was made him the
smartest of his kind to date. Tristan made note not to forget that
during the fight. He smiled demonically as he slung his shield over
his back and drew his dagger. “Oh you think so do you?” Tristan
goaded.

“Well. Let’s find out, shall we?” He
urged.

The orc snorted. Tristan assumed this was a
laugh of some sort. Then a strange expression passed over the orcs
face, as though he was grimacing. ‘This must be what passes for a
smile’ Tristan mused darkly. The Prince readied himself, moving his
right leg back and getting ready to parry the blows he knew were
bound to sting.

With surprising speed the orc swung his mace
around in a swiping motion aimed at taking Tristan’s head off. The
Prince smiled as he ducked under the blow and lashed out with his
dagger, slicing just above the orcs knee between his metal chin
guard and his plate greave. The orc yelled as he pulled back,
looking down at the superficial wound.

“Now, now.” Tristan warned sarcastically,
shaking his dagger at the orc. “Temper, temper.”

The orcs gathered behind their leader growled
in contempt as Tristan’s soldiers laughed and cheered. The large
orc howled in anger, tightened his grasp on his mace and spat on
the ground between them.