Rise of the Blood Masters (Book 5) (18 page)

Scattered cheers rose from the crowd. They were starting to feel it. He was giving them a shred of hope. Skemtun gave them a beaming smile. He was never much of an orator, but now the words spilled out of him like water from a pitcher. 

“Aye, the greenskins are a menace! To everyone! But don’t be afraid! This is our chance to prove our worth! I believe in ye! We’ll leave this fight victorious! Don’t forget the faces of yer brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers. And don’t forget the brothers standin’ right beside ye, either. And most of all, don’t forget your courage! It’s there, deep inside of ye, just waitin’ to come out!” His words rang loud and clear through the air.

There were more cries from the troops. “We’ll follow ye, Skemtun!”

Skemtun drew his battle axe from his belt and raised it in the air. All the soldiers followed his example. “Use yer heart! Let it guide yer axe. Fight now, without fear—to live another day with yer loved ones!” Skemtun’s speech struck a chord. Other soldiers took note of his words and joined the cheering crowd. “Death may stalk us, but it won’t defeat us. Not today! Not tomorrow! Not ever!”

The troops responded with a deafening cheer.
“Yea, Skemtun! Yea, Skemtun!”
they hollered with one voice, fists pumping in the air. Their cries rose like thunder, drowning out the sound of the orcs’ war drums.

Skemtun stepped down from the crate and walked back to where Baltas was standing. His head was held high, and the bright sun shone across his brow. Baltas came up and clapped him on the shoulder. A rough smile had transformed the captain’s rugged features. “A mighty fine speech, old friend. Mighty fine, indeed. Ye sure riled ‘em up!”

Skemtun chuckled. “Aye, I hoped it would, I truly did. The words just came out and, well, it worked, didn’t it?” The soldiers were all smiling now, whooping and jumping, shouting war cries. Some even started yelling battle songs. “They’re all set then?”

Baltas glanced up and down the line. “Seems so. They look ready to fight now. When the orcs reach the front gate, it starts. To be honest, I wish it’d happen sooner rather than later. The waitin’ is the worst part, ye know? For me, anyway. For these poor lads, it’s murder.”

Skemtun stopped at a gap in the stone battlements. Carvers had been working day and night to reinforce the walls above the gates and had doubled them in size. The wall they stood on ran above the main gate, looping back into the mountain. The gate, made of heavy iron, rested beneath them, cemented deep into the thick stone walls.

Behind them was a narrow entrance to the mountain and the dwarf city beyond. Skemtun glanced down at the walkway, which could accommodate twelve dwarves walking abreast. It was made of thick stone. Good stone. And heavily warded too. Dwarf spellcasters reinforced the wards again this morning, at dawn. These walls were strong.

The dwarves had built these defenses eons ago. Beneath a rocky outcropping above the main gate, stonecutters had collected the thickest stones they could find and began to build. They built the wall up tall, leaving only a small gap between it and the top of the mountain. The battle tower was carved right into the mountainside, making it impossible to scale.

“How’s everything inside the city?” he asked.

Baltas shrugged. “As good as can be expected, I guess. The women and children are scared out of their minds, but there’s not much we can do about that.” Skemtun ran his free hand over the smooth rock and sighed. Yes, they would defend the gates. They would hold strong. They had to.

Could we have built the walls up a little more? A little higher?
Would it be enough?

Looking at the horde in the distance, Skemtun had his doubts. He feared for the outcome of the battle. There were just so many orcs—too many of them. He began to hear their shrieks in the fields below.

They were so close.

The afternoon passed in a distressing haze. Skemtun refused to leave the walls, deciding to stay on watch through the night. He stood behind the ramparts, playing nervously with his axe.

When evening fell, a small contingent of greenskins made their first approach, and were soon standing before the gate. The orcs started hammering on the doors with their weapons, making as much noise as possible. They lifted their spears in a display of force, the bone handles reflecting the moonlight. 

Another squadron marched into the orchard and raised their torches into the branches. The dwarves’ precious fruit trees went up in flames. The air became heavy with the scent of burning leaves and trampled grass. All of the trees would be charred and black by the next morning. The orcs barked and bellowed, pleased with their first act of destruction.

The orcs had bows resting on their backs, and the feathered tips of arrows stuck up behind their tusked heads. Some wore grisly-looking armor, constructed from bones, which were then sewn onto animal skin. Others wore plain leather armor, and the rest wore nothing but loincloths. They were abominably filthy and emitted a smell so foul that some dwarves were sickened by it. Skemtun stepped back from the parapet. “Are we going to try and push ‘em back?”

Baltas shook his head and held up his hand, ordering the dwarves to wait. “Not yet. If we fire too soon, our arrows will be wasted. If we were fightin’ a normal army, our first volley might scare some of them off. But this isn’t a normal army. The greenskins will never break and run. Best to wait a while.”

The dwarves maintained their positions and waited. The minutes ticked by, and the orcs did nothing more than scream and cause a general ruckus. The moon rose in the sky, and it shed a flood of light over the forest.

“They seem to be waitin’ for some kind of signal,” muttered Baltas.

“Maybe,” said Skemtun, stepping forward and looking out onto the field. And then a warhorn sounded above the hills, its booming wail loud and terrible in the distance. It was a long way off, but it had a chilling effect.

“Did ye hear that?” Skemtun asked with a harassed look on his face.

“Aye,” Baltas responded. “That wasn’t one of ours.”

In the distance, a battering ram, pushed by the horde, rolled out of the trees. At one point, an unfortunate orc fell in front of the machine, trapping his leg underneath. The creature screamed for help, but the wheel passed over his body, crushing him and spilling his entrails on the ground. The orcs pushed forward as if nothing had happened, stepping over their fallen comrade without a second glance.

Skemtun turned away from the ghastly sight, his stomach churning.
They’re monsters, the whole lot o’ them!
  Skemtun set his jaw and clenched his axe handle.
I’ll give somethin’ to these rotten greenskins! The bloody death they deserve!

A number of orcs carried scaling-ladders above their heads. They were crudely constructed things, masses of rope and timber, but they could get the job done all the same. They were working together in small, organized groups. There was structure… and order. In all his life, Skemtun had never seen such a sight. The rumors were right, for once, the orcs had a leader who knew what he was doing. King Nar was calculating and intelligent, and he had trained them well. As soon as the ladders were in position at the front, a horn sounded and the orcs surged forward, propping their siege ladders against the wall.

Now the dwarves scrambled to respond.

“Ready the oil!” Baltas shouted. Steam curled up from the giant vats of oil. The oil was mixed with black pitch and was designed to stick to anything it came in contact with. The stuff was deadly. Baltas raised an arm. “Pour the oil! Toss it as far as ye can, lads! Let’s hit ‘em where it hurts!”

Counting and swinging, the dwarves released the vats. The bubbling oil flew outwards in a dark wave, coating the attackers on the ladders and near the gate. Agonized screams rose up as the hot oil stripped away their green flesh. Most collapsed and died instantly, but others screamed and writhed on the ground. The orcs stepped back from the gates, dragging the bodies of their dead with them.

The dead bodies were kicked aside, trampled, and eventually carried off the battlefield to be stacked into a heap. Skemtun was glad of one thing. The orcs didn’t use healers, as they considered it a weakness. Their fallen would be left to die and then the bodies burned.

Baltas pointed behind him to where more vats of oil stood. “Bring those cauldrons forward. We need to be ready when they come back.” The soldiers did as instructed and began dragging them to wood fires set up on the walkway.

In the meantime, Baltas ordered that the catapults be readied. The dwarves had four small catapults and two larger ones. The smaller catapults were designed for lethal accuracy, while the larger ones were for hurling larger boulders upon groups who were farther away.

“Ready the
fire-spheres!
” Baltas shouted.

The soldiers grabbed the fire-spheres: large balls of compressed grass that were drenched in animal fat and then rolled in tar. The center of the ball contained a glass orb of flammable liquid which would explode on impact. 

“Crank those wenches!” Baltas yelled. Soldiers placed the spheres in the smaller catapults and then cranked them back for the first volley. Just before release, the spheres were lit. Baltas eyed the catapults and nodded.  He raised his hand in the air and screamed, “FIRE!”

The fiery balls glided above the walls, racing toward the orcs like swarm of hornets. The balls shattered and exploded on the ground in a deadly cascade. This made the orcs retreat even faster, for the flaming oil caught everything on fire around them. Orcs fell to the ground in flaming death.

“That helped, but now what?” Skemtun asked.

Baltas shook his head. “They’ve retreated back a bit, at least.” He spoke quietly, so he wouldn’t alarm the soldiers. “That’s half our oil supplies, gone. They’ve got greater numbers than I’ve ever seen.”

Skemtun feared what lay ahead, but he wasn’t alone. Even Baltas seemed worried. They scanned the moving shadows in the fields below. At the edge of the forest, even more orcs emerged from the trees.
Would they ever stop?

They kept coming. Wave after wave. The sheer number was overwhelming, incomprehensible.

The orcs started bonfires to burn their dead. The smoke coming from the funeral pyres wafted toward the mountain in a fetid cloud. Overcome by the stench, several dwarves left their posts to vomit over the wall.

After the flames died down, the orcs picked up their ladders and started pushing toward the gate again. They weaved through and set up just behind the first mass. There they paused, waiting for their signal.

Baltas raised his hand. “Load the larger catapults, men. Load ‘em with the chippings!” Soldiers loaded the catapults again, this time with diamond-shaped rocks that were sharpened on both ends. Soon they were ready, and Baltas gave the command, “Fire! Fire now!”

The dwarves’ second volley hurtled over the walls and into the enemy lines. The sharp rocks spun end over end, whistling through the air and crashing down on the mass of orcs below. The orcs tried to move out of the way, but they couldn’t avoid the rain of death. Skemtun could hear the crunch of bones from where he stood. The sharpened stones stuck fast, impaling chests and bodies, slicing through limbs and necks. As the dust settled from the impact, more orcs stepped forward to replace the fallen. No matter how many the dwarves seemed to kill, there always seemed to be more of them. 

Baltas raised his arm again. “Fire again! Don’t stop! Fire again!”

More stones soared overhead. “As long as they keep comin,’ I want ye to keep shootin’!” Baltas cried. He ran to the front of the parapet and grabbed a bow lying on the ground.

“Archers to the wall!” he cried. He lifted his bow and shouted, “Grab yer bows, men!”

The dwarves drew their bows and notched their arrows. The bows were exquisitely crafted weapons, as beautiful as they were deadly.

“Aim!” shouted Baltas. The dwarves drew back the strings.

“FIRE!” he ordered.

The pluck of strings resonated through the air. A cloud of black arrows flew over the horde, arcing high in the sky, obscuring the moon like a cloud of bats. The arrows swept through the front ranks, hitting their marks. Orcs collapsed, writhing in pain, arrows lodged deep in their chests. Baltas raised his arm again and screamed, “Fire!”

A second cloud of arrows rained down, but this time the orcs raised shields against the barrage. The arrows that hit their shields clattered harmlessly to the ground. Baltas raised his own bow to fire with the others. “Do it again! Again!”

Wave after wave of arrows flew from the ramparts. But it simply wasn’t enough. Hundreds went down, and a thousand more poured forward to fill the gap. Horns wailed in the air, and more greenskins ran onto the battlefield, shouting war cries. The horde was enormous.

The battering ram weaved through the fields and approached the gates. Some of the orcs stopped and fired their own bows, their arrows tipped with poison. A few steps away from Skemtun, a young dwarf screamed, a black-feathered arrow buried deep in his eye. The soldier toppled back and collapsed, the bow flying from his grip.

The orcs began to scale the walls.

“Ready the remaining oil!” Baltas yelled. Dwarf guardsmen rushed forward with the remaining oil vats. They tilted the caldrons on their mobile supports. The scalding contents poured over the orc warriors below, adding to the chaos on the ground. The terrible screams of burning orcs rose in waves.

Skemtun knew they wouldn’t last long with so many firing on them at such a close range. He dropped his bow and ran to the back of the lines. Finding a torch, he picked it up and lifted it over his head.

“Grab a torch!  Everyone that’s not firing arrows or working the catapults
needs to grab a torch!”
Skemtun screamed.

The soldiers scrambled to comply, running back to light their torches in the braziers that kept the oil hot. Skemtun led them this time, carrying his torch like a beacon. He squeezed through the line of archers and found a gap between the protective stones on the ramparts. From there, he motioned to the men. “Don’t try to hit the orcs! Just aim for where the ground looks wet!” he shouted, tossing his torch down onto the ground below.