A flight of arrows whistled through the air, black across the sun, towards the lines of the legion. Fireballs erupted in erratic patterns, causing great explosions wherever they landed. The sounds of the wounded crying out for aid grew louder as the third day of battle raged on.
Orcish grunts continued to test the front lines of the legion, attempting to find any weakness they could exploit. Though they were thinned from the previous days engagements, they still held firm.
Emperor Logan, near the rear of the current engagement, held council with the senate. Every day with the rising sun, the Emperor left the front lines to wash his face of the orcish blood, and to converse with the council of honor. The Senator of War had been injured the previous day, a most grievous wound caused by a poisoned tipped spear. Clerics of the empire worked franticly to rid his body of the fever. The Imperator continued his inspection of the troops, not even giving himself a moments rest for neither food nor drink.
Far behind where the battle raged, a game of chess was being played. Balandar and Martok seemed oblivious to the fact that a battle was occurring. Both were seated in plush conjured chairs as they played their game. Wolf sat with the council, giving his advice to the change of tactics in the engagement.
Pater Borg shook his head as he came upon the two chess players. “Haven’t you anything better to do? Such as participate in the events surrounding us?” he asked, though he expected what the answer was to be.
“Too old, yes, we are too old for battle. That sort of thing is best left for the young,” Martok replied without looking up from the chessboard. Grunting, Balandar appeared to agree with his counterpart. Shrugging, Borg walked away from the two, and continued towards the front lines of battle.
The air crackled with electrical blasts of lightning, followed by the smell of charred and burning flesh. The stink of death was heavy in the air, a stink that not even the growing strength of the wind could carry away. Steel mixed with magic, magic mixed with arrows. The third day appeared to be a continuation of the stalemate that had been played out since the first sword was drawn. The orcish horde was well organized, perhaps the most organized they had ever been. They had taken the empire by surprise. All previous encounters with orcs was short work for the legion, this engagement proved to be different.
As the day wore on, the two chess players grew bored of their game, and ventured out towards what the legionnaires now referred to as “the killing field.” Fireballs and bolts of ethereal energy bounced off of the magical shields surrounding the two, being reflected back towards the shaman that unleashed them. Ancient Wolf managed to laugh as the two approached between his heavy gasps for breath. His sword was stained with the black ooze of orc blood. His enchanted armor shone brightly in the mid day sun. Balandar merely wrinkled his nose at the grizzled warrior, apparently deciding he no longer wanted to be in the front of the battle, waved his hand and was gone.
The day’s sun began its decent behind the horizon, giving its last rays of light. The strong gusts of wind began to subside, almost as if in anticipation of something. A low rumble began at the flanks of the empire’s lines. The remaining light from the sun shone brightly upon a single figure mounted upon his horse at the hills crest. Emperor Logan, with sword raised high began a song to the gods, one of the ancient battle cries of the empire. Within moments, the emperor was surrounded by hundreds of other mounted warriors, all answering his call to arms and shrugging off their exhaustion. Pater Imperium Borg, riding his mount up beside the emperor, nodded his head in approval.
The mounted warriors began charging down the hillside to the center of battle. The rolling thunder of horses was nearly deafening. Orcs were felled with swift strokes of the sword and the wave of a mage’s hand. Not deterred by the legion’s advance, more orcs rose to take their fallen comrades place.
Wolf lowered his sword and motioned Martok forward to fend off the surrounding orcs as he caught his breath. The grizzled warrior was no longer the young man he once was. Sweat ran heavy down his brow as he gasped for breath. Loosening the elastic holding his armor together, he let out a breath of relief. “I will have to have this armor adjusted!” Wolf thought to himself. “It seems to be shrinking again!” Smiling as if reading his thoughts, Martok threw the occasional bolt of energy or magical arrow at any orc that ventured too near.
The group of mounted warriors was making progress through the enemy ranks. Hudson jumped down from his mount to chase down a few squeamish orcs that thought they could hide under their fallen comrades for protection. Centurion Liz Shue rallied her cohort of warlocks to concentrate their magical attacks, unleashing death in their wake. The necromancers of the empire raised the lifeless corpses of the orcs as they fell, dominating their undead will and forcing them to fight their own kindred.
Pater Borg motioned for the Emperor to look toward the sky as the clouds began to break. The full moon was now high in the heavens, lighting up the area as the legion continued its advance. A few distant specks were seen as well in the breaking clouds, reflecting the light of the moon. Smiling, Emperor Logan kicked his horse in its haunches and pressed it forwards.
The specks of light began to grow as they approached. Bolstered by their sight, the legion seemed to get its second wind, pressing even harder. The orcs were unsuspecting of what approached until it was too late; once the dragon fear held them, they could not escape.
The great elder dragons, mounted by the herans, swooped down low across the orcs, bellowing fire from their great maws melted down dozens of orcs with each pass. The battlefield was now chaos. As well organized as the orcs were, they were still after all, orcs. The sight of the dragons was too much for many of them to bear. Those that did not succumb to the dragon fear began running with a crazed panic, giving the legion easy opportunity to split their flesh with steel.
Wolf pulled the elastic bands and clasped his armor back on, raising his sword again to enjoy the turn in events. Martok pulled a stiff, very stiff, dead lizard from one of the inner pockets of his robes and tied it to his gnarled black staff. Holding his staff in one hand, and an equally dead and stiff rat in the other, he was also ready to unleash the full power of his magic upon the enemy. Wherever the ancient magician pointed his staff, an orc took its last breath.
The two worked well together: steel and staff. Fighting back-to-back, Martok and Wolf ensured that no orc within their vision would escape. A few orc archers tried to let loose an arrow, but where hewn down swiftly by the seemingly unstoppable combination of the two working in unison.
From a distance, the orc shaman continued to launch blasts of their magic against Martok’s shield, to no avail. His magic was ancient, and far beyond the feeble magic of the orcs. Grinning with his seeming omnipotence, Martok raised his staff high in the sky, calling the dark clouds above to let loose their powerful lightning upon their foes.
An orcish archer, hiding behind a grove of yew trees, let loose an arrow at the mage. His aim was far from accurate, and instead of hitting the mage’s shield, the arrow ripped through the lizard strung upon the top of his staff and exploded as the magical energy the lizard was imbued with was released. Being thrown to the ground, Martok rose to his knees, seemingly confused. Wolf turned back to his companion as another arrow ripped through the mages side. Blood began to flow down the front of the ebony black robes as he clutched his new wound. His shield was down, and he was now vulnerable, extremely vulnerable.
Wolf knew his comrade was in trouble, and swiftly ran down the orc archer who had committed the offence. Martok crawled to the near-by ravine, and pulled himself under a fallen great yew tree. What seemed like an eternity later, Wolf returned, and joined his friend in the makeshift shelter.
The grizzled old warrior had lost the eye patch that covered his left eye, or what was left of his left eye. His breathing was uneven, and he immediately unhooked his armor. Panting heavily he turned to Martok, “We are now far behind the legion’s lines. They have advanced several miles ahead with the aid of the herans. I’m afraid we’re all alone now.” His ominous words had little affect on the injured conjurer. He spent all of his mental energy to keep the pain in his side from overwhelming him.
“We are too old for this,” replied the old mage after a few minutes of silence.
“Bah,” retorted Wolf as he rubbed his belly. “I’m tired, and so very hungry. Perhaps you could conjure us a meal?”
Clutching his side and trying not to laugh, Martok replied, “I think you could do without a few meals old friend, besides, you know that the conjured mage food is but an illusion. It will satisfy the appetite, but not the body. You will only grow more hungry,”
“If we are to die here, I would rather chose to die with a full belly,” he laughed.
Nodding his head in agreement, the mage struggled to sit up, and began his chant. Minutes passed before the spell was complete, and the roasted chicken and spiced potatoes appeared. Instantly, the old warrior felt better as he greedily swallowed down every bit of the conjured food.
They both sat silently under the fallen tree, shrouded from the sight of the remaining orcs in the area. “What do you see? Your foresight I mean?” Wolf whispered.
Martok closed his eyes and pondered for a few minutes. “I am too weak to be certain. I only know that I will not see the end of this campaign, though I know not by what means, whether death shall finally take me, or what other power would keep me from its conclusion.” Wolf closed his eyes at the ominous words of his friend, and both remained silent.
The wounded mage slipped into a deep sleep. Wolf looked over at his injured friend, and uttered a silent oath to remain awake and stay on guard. The sleeping mage hadn’t noticed the fresh red blood that flowed down the front of the warriors armor from several punctured holes.
The eerie night’s silence was broken only by the occasional cry of a distant orc…….
