The Awl in the Pocket Is Protruding (1)
My hands ached as I slashed again and again at any Orc that dared face my fury. My body was bruised and cut all over. It had been quite some time since my stamina had become so low during a battle. Our defense held as the Rangers upon the walls continued their song, and the men around me continued the defense of Winter Castle. The Orcs had marched all the way here from the Blade’s Edge Mountains, yet they were not weakened enough to quickly fall before our magical blades. However, they surely weren’t strong enough to overwhelm our position. This was a new way of fighting that the Orcs exhibited, for they had managed to gain our battlements and tear down our gate.
The Rangers had already dealt with the Orcs on the walls, though the battle still raged. Any cry of victory would be premature, for massed ranks of the things moved along the wall into the breached castle gate. I was anxious to end this siege as soon as possible, though I knew the possibility of a massed charge outside the castle by my forces was still far off. Or was it?
A few squads of knights had hacked their way almost all the way to the gate. Upon seeing their brave advance, my blood boiled with battle-lust.
“The battle still rages!” I heard a Ranger’s call. “We need to charge the fuckers now!” The Rangers, their commanders having little say, drew their swords and joined our defense of the gap. I noticed this swelling of our forces, blue flame coming once more to Twilight as I led my knights against the corrupt Orcs, knowing that once we pushed them out of the gates, the Rangers at our back could spread out to bolster our line. My knights rallied behind me as we crashed into the Orcs in a wedge formation, the beasts falling left and right before our righteous assault. I had complete command over the spearhead, focusing their efforts to the left and then the right, finally slowing our advance as we strengthened our line, gaining a meter every minute as we drove the foe further from our walls. During this entire movement, the Rangers had not once relented in their battle song.
“I piled up green carcasses, raising myself a mountain!
Red streams flowed from it, as bloody nails.
I honor our fallen before this mountain of mine!”
This Muhunshi poem echoed through our lines, instilling a righteous fury in the breasts of the soldiery. We hacked and slashed until finally, only a small group of the hated beasts remained. I focused on these remaining few, unleashing the power within me. Blue flames engulfed them, not one even having the chance to utter a yelp as they became nothing but ash drifting onto the snow. Not one Orc remained alive as my blue flames slowly smoldered into nothingness. As the First Prince, I stood tall upon that snowy field, my entire body covered in Orcish blood. My head was bowed in silence, my sword steaming as the escaping heat misted the blood upon it. The loot from the Orcs was mine.
“I won!” Was the exclamation that escaped my lips. Our defense had held. The Orcs had been annihilated. The siege was lifted.
“Long live the First Prince! Long live the First Prince!”
This came from the Rangers, and from my own throat, dry from my war poem. We had won, and sore throats were a pittance when compared to that glorious truth. Vincent sat down beside me with a thud.
“Huh, we definitely destroyed them,” he said as he took in the dead Orcs scattered across the bloody snow. His voice had a hazy quality to it, almost sounding like a dreamer having awoken from a long slumber. Many of the knights also sank to the ground, giving in to their exhaustion.
These knights had been the bulwark of our defense, and they deserved every second of rest. The Rangers, many of them having doubted our chances at victory from the very beginning, started to do their appointed duties of gathering our dead and wounded. Some of them grumbled at the relaxing knights. I quickly scolded them and oversaw the removal of our dead as they were carried through the gates and into the courtyard. A commander glanced at me, seeing no doubt a noble prince who leant against a tattered battle banner. A woman sporting many wounds sat in the snow a few feet from him, her head resting against my thigh. Some of the knights entered their chant, and the commander’s face took on a mask of utmost wonder.
“It must be amazing to be able to channel Muhunshi,” he said to me.
“It is unlike battle dances,” I replied with a voice soaked with fatigue. The commander glanced at the woman at my side and me. I could see him considering us as if we were lying in bed together. He then beckoned to some Rangers who were not busy piling up dead Orcs.
“Light the fire,” he commanded them. When the last Orc was thrown onto this great pile, oil and pitch were poured all along the edges of it. Finally, the Rangers threw their torches, and the Orc carcasses lit into a great inferno, the pungent smell of it assaulting our noses. Thousands of dead Orcs burned that day, and so great was the heat of this pyre that it was seen from many miles away—seen by beings outside of Winter Castle.
A woman sat upon the peak of the arid mountain. Her eyes blazed with ecstasy as she looked at the wall of flame and smoke that rose from the battlefield below her. She was Sigrun, the Elder High Elf. Her face possessed a divine beauty, from her pronounced chin to the very tips of her pointy ears. She giggled as she watched the flames, a capricious little giggle, her face as unreadable as that of a cat.
“The war…” said a voice. Upon hearing it, Sigrun’s body immediately grew taught as she vaulted from the old tree that was her perch.
Eun-an had spoken. He blazed like a shining star, and his eyes possessed a near-infinite depth that was intent upon their study of Winter Castle.
At that moment, a great bestial roar resounded throughout the mountains. It was a fierce roar, yet it also had the quality of a trapped animal about it.
“Please do not come upon him swiftly,” Sigrun whispered to herself. “He must have time to grow some more.” She gave a soft chuckle, followed by a satisfied smile. She was here to make her presence known, knowing that it would place the King of the Mountain on an alert footing. Maybe this would prevent him from leaving his fastness for a while. She stared once more at Winter Castle as if staring directly at Jeong-in. Her eyes glazed over in a dewy manner, her voice coming sounding oh-so-sweet.
“Please win as you have won today,” her sugary voice said, though not in a tone of love. No, Sigrun’s words were filled with nothing but her twisted desires.
* * *
The Northern Lords and their more central counterparts were in an uproar, for a single missive had reached them by carrier pigeon from the northernmost realm in which Winter Castle stood.
“Balahard has asked for our aid!” their spokesman told those who have not yet heard the news. Winter had just begun, and usually, this meant that any military action by the monsters would still be in its infancy. Already, a request for support had arrived. This was a dire omen, for the shield of the North, having held fast for many centuries, was now starting to crack.
“Alert all the families at once! Sent out the heralds!”
Everyone occurred with this conclusion. Their First Prince had traveled North, and all the gathered nobles shuddered, unsure whether Winter Castle and therefore he himself, still stood firm. All knew that if the Balahard family fell, nothing would stop the cruel winter from raging South.
Suffice it to say, to call the current situation a disaster would be a cruel understatement.
The heralds rode North and South, alerting every noble house, whether petty or mighty. Some were outraged or frightened by the reports, while others merely scoffed and dismissed them out of hand, especially the Southern lords. They saw the whole thing as a political ploy to impoverish their houses and divide their forces, for their recollections of the brutal nature of the foe was not as fresh as that of many Northern houses. These nobles enjoyed their lives of leisure and indolence under their warmer sun, and soon no heralds came to them anymore. Clearly, they were obstinate, and sending messengers their way was a waste of horseshoes and hay.
Even those who saw the truth of the matter merely assumed that the prince had been killed and wondered who the next king would be. The Northern families, though, were anxious for any news, and this news finally came. A rider now stood before the gathered nobility.
“Hear me out, Lords! Two entire corps of elite Orcs had besieged Winter Castle. By the vigorous efforts of the third legion as well as the Balahard Rangers, this entire force has been wiped out!”
The mood in the room took changed as the nobles heard a report they did not suspect to hear.
“Ah, Count Balahard! You remain the unbroken shield of our kingdom!” A lord uttered, his relief evident. Not all shared his relief, however, and the herald’s next statement reinforced their hesitation:
“Winter Castle is preparing itself for another battle, whether on our terms or that of the foe. All scattered troops of Count Balahard have been summoned to the castle. Yet, so great are the numbers that the enemy can field that our force will even then be inadequate, so we are desperate to receive any and all forms of reinforcement.
“And what of the casualties you have suffered?” a lady asked, arching her brow. Here, the messenger beamed with pride.
“The battle was fierce and many foes we faced, yet thankfully we did not lose that many men.”
“Why then do you come crawling here, begging for our aid?” a visiting Southern lord asked, not even attempting to hide the scorn in his voice.
“The size of the enemy forces is unprecedented, and it is our commander’s judgment that victory is impossible with just our current troops.”
“How many monsters does this enemy field?” a more reasoned voice inquired.
“Our current count has them at eight legions. This would be sixteen-thousand Orcs, all waiting to move South. These legions consist of Orc Shamans, Orc Warriors and Orc Clan Chiefs.”
“What? That many?” a lord exclaimed, sitting down in shock as he rapidly blinked his eyes.
“Eight legions, my lord. Yet, there is worse news. An Orcish king has appeared, and he alone leads his armies. That is why the Excellency, my commander, has requested your support, asking that you send every soldier that you can field as soon as possible.”
The lords were silent at this news. Eight legions of Orcs were an army twice as large as the soldiers that could be fielded by the kingdom. These numbers rolled around in the lord’s head, and as he had never picked up the blade, being a lord of peace, he chose to deny reality.
“I have never heard of this… King of the Orcs. And surely, all of us gathered here know that if more than one Orc stands in a room it is only a matter of minutes until they tear at each other’s throats. To say that so many Orcs have gathered together toward a single purpose is absurd!”
Many of those gathered nodded their agreement, knowing well the anarchic nature of Orcish society.
The herald, and his masters, had expected this reply. He motioned for two stevedores standing in the back of the hall to bring a wooden chest to the fore. Lord Young-ju immediately assumed that it was a chest of gold, paying for the support of the gathered nobility. He licked his greedy lips.
The chest was opened, and from it, a huge Orc’s head was removed, the thing having been pickled in vinegar so as to prevent it from rotting during its long journey. The Lord stepped back in fright, and the messenger had an almost embarrassed look on his face.
“This is the decapitated head of the Orc, a Night Slayer, who had led the siege upon Winter Castle. His Majesty, the First Prince, has defeated this foe and has kindly sent you its head, as an object lesson of the peril we face. As you can see, my Lord, this head is five times larger than that of an ordinary Orc, and twice as large as the head of an Orc warrior.”
Most of the herald’s words passed the lord by. All that he could see was the giant Orcish head, its sturdy jaw, and the ugly, brutish forehead with dead eyes that somehow yet bespoke of a cruel malevolence. The herald continued his assessment of this grim showpiece.
“It has been confirmed by precise measurement that the body of this specimen was at least three times as large as that of a normal Orc. Based on the abnormal growth of this single Orc, we can safely assume that there is indeed a King of the Orcs.”
The herald slammed the lid of the chest shut.
“My masters hope that you now grasp the importance and the urgency of this matter.”
Despite the formality and arrogance of the messenger, the Lord evinced no anger. No, his heart was gripped by dread, seeing this cruel, monstrous skull as an ill omen of events to come.
* * *
And so it came to be that many heralds traveled across the land, each with a different limb hacked from the body of the Night Slayer. They visited the central lords as well, those who had been the most skeptical and hesitant when the first message had found their ears. Upon seeing the grim truth rotting before their eyes, they soon grasped the gravity of this Northern threat. The heralds now all met each other upon the royal road. Before they entered the capital, they assembled each piece of the Night Slayer, mounting its carcass upon a wagon like some strange exhibit as could be found in a museum of curiosities. Most of the High Lords dismissed Winter Castle’s peril, even after seeing the carcass of the Orc displayed in full before them. Accusations of inflating the situation to gain political leverage were fielded against the Balahard family. The lords who voiced their support for Count Balahard, considering the threat serious, were in the greater minority. The King finally entered the hall and seated himself upon his throne.
The heralds informed him of what the Orc was and that the First Prince had slain it.
“Well, it has been killed by someone who has not even held a sword for a year! It is large, yes, but surely if it was killed by so young a man it can’t be more ferocious than your regular, run-of-the-mill Orc,” one lord stated in a mocking manner. Many more joined him, denigrating the First Prince’s martial prowess and casting aspersions as to the political ambitions of Count Balahard. Some even said that the Orc’s carcass was an elaborate hoax.
“Hold your tongue! You dishonor the dedication of Count Balahard in holding our Northern border against abominations such as this,” the Marquis of Bielefeld voiced. He and a few others vehemently defended the Balahards.
“Silence!”
The entire hall went quiet within an instant, for the king had spoken, his hand raised in command.
“I know the Count Balahard well, and he is not one for hoaxes and the scheming you ascribe to him. If he says the matter facing his lands is serious, he surely speaks no falsehood.”
The nobles did not dispute this; most of them knowing that the count would not idly ask for aid. They had grasped at the chance of sullying his character, nothing more and nothing less.
“Your Majesty, will we then support the Northern Houses as much as we are able?” the Marquis of Bielefield asked, hope creeping into his voice.
“Oh, indeed,” came the king’s idle response. “Gung Jung-baek will contract a suitable force of mercenaries and send them to the North.”
The faces of many nobles, especially the Marquis of Bielefeld’s, darkened at this statement. Their belief that the kingdom was rotten to its core became much deeper.
“Oh, and send those noble sons convicted by trial North as well. Let them wash their sins away in the sea of battle,” the king added as an afterthought, not noticing the hateful glances a few of his nobles had cast at him. All hope was not lost, however, as a strong voice sounded throughout the hall:
“The royal family should not turn its back on the utter devotion and loyalty shown to it by the Balahards,” the Second Prince spoke as he came to stand before the King. He was the favorite choice for succession, and many believed that he was the earthly incarnation of the First King, the founder of the kingdom.
“Your Majesty, I will ride North with all my knights.”
Comments