Orc Lord

Johnathan hugged the mound with his body, keeping himself as low and mouse-like as possible. He peeked up over the edge while Samson kept an eye on their rear, and Kyle and Kenny to their North and South. Michael silently shuffled through their bag in the middle of their formation, checking all their things for a third time.

“I know it’s a little late to ask this now,” Samson whispered, “but using explosives against a bunch of fire and wind mages seems risky, doesn’t it?”

Michael rolled a palm-sized magic item over in his hand, one such explosive, and shrugged. “If we detonate them when those mages are sleeping, they’ll still cause a fair bit of confusion, at least. That’s half our job here.”

Kenny peeked over her shoulder, whispering in an alto tone, “Explosives are safer than torches, at least.”

Kyle looked back at the others as well. Because the soldiers in the detachment were all wearing black clothes and hiding their faces, it was impossible to tell at the moment, but he and Kenny were twins.

“They’re too violent and fast for most fire mages to do anything about. But those guys know wind magic too. We should be careful that those things don’t get lobbed back at us,” he said.

“How’s the main force doing?” Johnathan asked without removing his gaze from the enemy camp.

Kenny glanced back out to the northwest, using a scouting skill of hers to sense the general direction and distance to her allies in the main force.

“About thirty minutes ‘til they enter visual range.”

“Then we’d better go,” Samson declared, standing up and taking the bag from Michael.

Everyone else stood up too. It was time for their detachment to sow chaos.

The side they approached from was the West. In theory, the watch on this side of the camp would be more lax, since the only thing in this direction should be Claymore itself, friendly territory. The main force had far more people in it and moved slower, so they would be approaching from the North.

The scouts used various mystical and mundane skills to approach the enemy camp unseen, eliminating the lookout as their first foothold. After that, they split up. Samson and Michael went south to find the food storage and plant the magical explosives there, and the others then circled around and took out the northern watchpost. Then they descended upon the king’s tent like a second nightfall.

Kenny and Kyle slit the throats of the two guards who framed the entrance, moving in perfect sync. They nodded at Johnathan, who slipped past the cloth door and brandished his own blade.

The king was asleep in his bed, snoozing serenely. It was almost pitiful the legacy that would be left behind by this man: a crumbling kingdom, besieged from all sides by environmental, economic, and diplomatic hardship, and a ridiculed king who lacked the ability to resolve any of it; assassinated in his embarrassing nightwear, a death without dignity.

But because of the inept way King Claudius Claymore had lived, it was a death no one would be surprised by.

Looming over the sleeping royal like a wraith, Johnathan lifted his blade and brought it down without hesitation, aiming cleanly for the jugular.

King Claymore yawned and rolled over.

The blade stroked his cheek, clipped his ear, and stabbed through the pillow behind his head.

Impossible… Johnathan’s eyes widened, shocked by this incomprehensible shift in fortunes. He was already pulling his blade back to try again, but the king had opened his eyes, alerted by the sound and vibration of the first, faulty, impact.

The assassin lunged at his target, and Claudius rolled off the back of his bed—through and under the tent wall. Johnathan collided with the fabric barrier and cut through it, looking around frantically for the king, only to see another section of tent wall shuddering. He dashed back inside again and had just a split second to process what he was seeing.

King Claudius Claymore was standing in the middle of his tent, wearing light blue footie pajamas and a nightcap, and holding a positively monstrous claymore sword in his hands. Before the assassin could do anything else, the blade cut a clean arc through the air and liberated his head from his body.

At this point, Kyle and Kenny judged that there was too much noise coming from the tent and that something must’ve gone wrong. They pulled back the door curtains and stared in shock at their comrade’s headless corpse, at the middle aged monarch propping a sword upon his shoulder, his nightwear and face splattered with blood.

The king grinned ominously in the dark. “You know, it’s a common misconception that my family was named after the riverbanks we settled on. Our feud with the harpies and shift toward archery came… much later.”

Claudius leapt forward and jumped, kicking both of his legs out in front of him and planting his heels into the twins’ chests. They flew back from the tent and sprawled on their backs but quickly recovered. Like their lives depended on it, Kyle and Kenny were on their feet again with their short swords drawn as soon as possible. The king used them like a launch pad, flipping back over himself in the air and landing spryly on his bare feet at the tent entrance.

“But it is the duty of royalty to preserve tradition, you know,” he grinned like a beast.

Kyle held his sword close in a defensive position and Kenny felt shivers of dread run down her back.

Then there was a loud and sudden explosion to the south. The king turned to look in that direction, and the assassins seized their chance. They ran toward him from two sides, attacking in coordination. Kenny aimed for his eyes and Kyle for his waist.

King Claudius adjusted his grip. The blade of his weapon blocked Kyle’s short sword and the pommel struck Kenny’s knuckles, forcing her to drop hers. Both immediately tried to take distance, but the Royal took a lunging step and swung his blade over his shoulder and toward the soil.

It bit into Kenny’s shoulder, cleaving tendons and bone. The assassin screamed and was bullied to her knees by the ruthless steel.

“No!” Kyle shouted. “Damn you!”

“That’s my line,” King Claymore pulled his sword back, took a step forward, and plunged it into Kenny’s back, through the core of her being, and past the soil. It looked like one smooth, beautiful motion, but it was a death knell. “That was our food supply that just went up in flames, wasn’t it?” The King pulled his weapon free. “That is extremely inconvenient for me.”

Kyle clicked his tongue, cast one last glance at his sister’s body, and ran toward the distant fire. It seemed the one advantage he had over the swordsman was his speed on foot, because he managed to reunite with Samson and Michael.

“Where are the others?” Michael asked.

“Dead,” Kyle said, breathless. “We underestimated their king. We should run!”

The other two shared wary looks and nodded. “Alright,” Samson said, “we completed most of our objectives. Let’s just go.”

The king’s voice echoed with gravitas, “Go where, exactly?”

Dozens of soldiers moved to surround them, and even the fires in the distance were being extinguished—though they had done their job already. The scouts’ eyes grew shadowed as King Claudius approached leisurely from outside the encirclement.

“You aren’t going anywhere. Your little night raid ends here. I appreciate it almost as little as I appreciate your attempt on my life.”

He raised a hand and summoned an orb of flames above it, lobbing it into the encirclement. It stopped on the ground without hitting any of them, but then spread rapidly, forming a circle around Kyle, then a cyclone, and then his ashen body collapsed to the mud, dead.

Samson gritted his teeth and assessed the situation. Surrounded on all sides. These soldiers were mostly archers, and less skilled at melee combat, but that would contrarily make escape even more difficult. As for victory, he was the best built and most practiced in terms of man-to-man combat among their group, which was why he could tell at a glance that he wasn’t a match for King Claymore.

Who the hell said that man was incompetent? If he’d been born a soldier instead of a politician…

Samson shook his head and resolved himself to die here. He could see that Michael was making the same resolution himself. But still, he wanted one little victory at least.

So Samson smiled mockingly, “Do what you want with us. But you’re too late. We aren’t just a night raid; we’re a distraction. The main force will be here any second now.” He nodded his chin to signal behind the king.

Claymore furrowed his brow and took his sword off his shoulder, piercing it into the earth and leaning against it with his wrists draped over the crossguard. “Sorry, you don’t mean from that direction—the north—do you?”

Samson felt his small joy extinguishing alongside his smile. “Why?”

Claymore shrugged his shoulders and pulled his sword out of the soil. “Men, restrain them. And then have everyone head to the north side of the camp. Let’s have our guests take a look too.”

Samson and Michael were tied with their arms pinned tight to their bodies and their wrists attached. But more uncomfortable than that was the pervasive feeling of dread. Not just the king, but his soldiers seemed too calm. The last members of the detached force wondered where they were getting their confidence.

Upon arriving at the northern wall, they realized it, and their hearts sank. The soldiers were sinking too—into a wide and hidden mud flat positioned a few hundred meters north of Claymore’s camp. The enemy forces were already getting into positions with their bows. At this rate, the main force was going to be helplessly shot down before they could even approach.

“Damn,” Michael hung his head.

Samson stared out at the sinking soldiers with wide eyes and then turned toward King Claymore. “H-how did you—?!”

Before he could finish his question, the king’s greatsword cut both his neck and Michael’s in one severing motion. As their heads tumbled to the ground, Claudius scratched his cheek.

“Oops, I thought we were done here. Basically, there was a failed attempt to dig a moat…” Realizing that the people who wanted to know couldn’t hear his explanation anymore, King Claymore shrugged. “Someone fetch me my bow,” he ordered.

The bow his men delivered to him was truly massive: a wrought-metal monster of an armament. The king pulled back the string without any apparent effort and loosed an arrow at the pitiful sitting ducks stumbling out in the mud. His soldiers all fired after his lead, and the Andorin Army’s main force quickly became a collection of human pin cushions.

Of course, they all wore heavy armor and carried shields, so it would take more than one volley to truly bring them down, but if there was one thing Claymore didn’t lack, it was arrows.

The only thing Claudius Claymore had ever understood about trade and economy was how to keep his army supplied and funded.

“We should go pillaging their camp after this,” he declared, pulling back his bowstring again. A metal arrow shot out and punched right into his target’s chest. “If only I knew where it was, anyway. Hm?”

King Claymore watched his victim clutch his chest, struggling to breathe but otherwise alive. His arrow had bounced off the soldier’s armor despite the power of his bow.

“That magic metal Andorin found is pretty good,” he mused, nocking another arrow and sending it cleanly through the soldier’s throat instead. He knew from reports how sturdy Andorin’s equipment was, but still had to check it for himself.

The men aren’t going to like me for it, he thought, but I’m going to have to ask them to dig up that ground again.

Claymore’s economy was in shambles and they couldn’t just leave valuable magic metals buried in the mud.

Oh well. They’ll find it in their hearts to forgive me, he smiled, firing again.