Orc Lord

“Claymore’s side needs food, imminently. They can’t just restock it from the home front because the river flooded and ruined most of what they had stored away. But they know where your camp is; they’ll try to take your food.”

Prince Verde stood with his arms folded, a few trusted officers and their men accompanying him. Together they completely surrounded the food supplies.

“They’ll want to come as soon as they can, but they’ll probably wait until dark for a more effective ambush.”

He looked up at the sky, empty except for the starlight. The sun and moon had long since set. All the men were ready at his command, so the longer they waited with nothing happening the larger his anxiety grew.

But finally, the prince heard a horn call from the north.

“Most of them will gather at the highest place they can to rain arrows on your camp. Although a potentially devastating battle, it’ll ultimately just be a distraction so another group can steal your food.”

Following what the Orc Lord predicted Claymore’s next moves would be, the Andorin forces were arranged similarly. Here, Verde was leading the group that guarded their food. He was a prince, after all, and this ought to be the safer deployment of the two. But most of their men were waiting precisely for that horn call.

On the northern edge of camp, Captain Orvas had his chance to redeem himself.

“Shields up!” he ordered, and the lieutenants echoed his orders to spread them to the whole force.

Like a rolling wave, the men raised their shields forged of magical metals and blocked a rain of arrows. The first deluge hit, then all the free-launched arrows came in a disorderly spattering.

“Keep your shields high!” Captain Orvas ordered. “Trust your armor, and charge! Run them down, men!”

Upon receiving their orders, the men roared and spilled out from the camp walls. There was no unsteady terrain around their own camp, so they ran with confidence in their footing. Although people were dropping at a fairly regular pace due to arrow fire, the majority were able to tank the blows with their equipment and keep running. For just tonight, this war wasn’t a marathon but a sprint. Would Andorin’s soldiers run swiftly enough to overtake Claymore’s archers at the nearest hilltop? Or would they fall to their wounds before their swords could meet the enemy?

This was the first major clash of the war: not squads of boat-riders, not a raiding company, but a proper and complete army of three thousand men against another force of roughly equal size. If this battle went well, not only could Captain Orvas redeem his loss earlier today, but the entire course of the war could change.

The Captain roared encouragement to all the soldiers struggling against the rain of arrows, fire, and wind as he did the same. “Like your lives depend on it! Push through!”

The cries that answered him didn’t contain any words but more than made up for it in overflowing morale. Just a few more steps, just a little further, and they could finally cut those slippery Claymore bastards! After so many helpless losses, the men wanted that chance badly. They fought for it. Many died for it, but the army pushed forward: against the arrows, against the fires and winds, up the hill…

Meanwhile, atop that very hill to the north of the Andorin army’s base camp, Claymore’s archers were launching volley after volley, slinging arrow and spell alike in their best attempt to break the enemy’s charge. At the rear of their formation, a dearly respected man was guiding them.

“Steady now. Aim for the gaps in their armor; our arrows won’t penetrate that equipment of theirs.”

It was not King Claymore overseeing the troops, but his trusted aide, Mercator. The elderly man was standing amidst the war zone with a calm expression, a few pieces of leather armor worn over his butler-like suit to protect his most important vitals.

“Sir, they’re gaining on us,” an adjutant reported urgently. “They’re already at the base of the hill.”

Mercator nodded. “Indeed. His majesty already told us how to proceed. Now seems like the time.”

“Yes sir.”

The adjutants conveyed orders to the soldiers, and those in the rear formation promptly shot a volley of flaming arrows high into the air. Many of the Andorin soldiers saw the incoming threat, glowing like a meteor shower in the dark, and raised their shields to better protect their heads.

The forward archers then shot a volley of arrows enhanced with wind magic, which pummeled the enemy’s heavily armored bodies back. Although those arrows could at least leave a mark, they couldn’t penetrate the magic metals, but the sheer force behind them succeeded at breaking the enemy’s charge. It would be difficult for them to build up that much momentum again, running uphill.

Though the melee confrontation could no longer be avoided.

Captain Orvas and the rest made the final push with wrathful enthusiasm. Finally, finally their swords could reach the enemy! Orvas himself lunged at the first Claymore soldier he saw and swung his sword arm—unleashing a skill to enhance his cutting power and everything. Metal on metal, a ringing blow and visceral impact, it felt euphoric to finally fight back.

But contrary to expectations, his adversary didn’t fall after his strike. Clicking his tongue in jealous indignation, Captain Orvas noticed that the armor the archer was wearing had the green-ish tint of orichalcum. Surely, the magical equipment had been salvaged from the bodies of his own men.

“Are you soldiers or are you bandits?!” he roared, swinging his weapon again.

The archer drew a short sword to defend himself, but his skill with it was mediocre, and it wasn’t backed by any mystical skills either. By Orvas’s third strike, the archer fell, and he searched for a new victim to wet his blade. His eyes scanned the enemy formation, searching for their king but not finding him. Deeper in, or back at the enemy camp, perhaps? Either way, he fought like a demon to redeem his prior loss.

***

Far away from the battle and all of its bloodthirst and noise, two smaller groups of military men stood facing each other. The moment they spotted each other turned into a standoff. The tension seemed thick enough to cut it with a knife.

One of the groups was led by the second prince. Shockingly, the other was led by King Claymore himself, who had elected to join the detachment in charge of stealing food instead of directing the main battle.

Both men were the leaders of their respective armies. In theory, they should be of equal standing—at least on the battlefield. But contrasting the youthful, smooth-faced prince in gleaming adamantine armor against the tall and broad-shouldered king, with his salt-and-pepper hair and beard, creases at the corners of his eyes, and ruddy leather gear… Claudius Claymore had a force of charisma that Verde simply didn’t have. He was palpably confident in himself, whereas Verde knew he was a frustrated figurehead under someone else’s thumb.

The King of Claymore was armed with a sizable greatsword in addition to his monstrous bow. Andorin’s soldiers suddenly didn’t feel so confident in a melee battle when they stood in front of him. Portraits and posh noble attire had always made him look soft and silly on the few other occasions Prince Verde had seen the neighboring monarch, but in person, armed and armored in practical military attire, seeing his height and build up close… Verde would’ve called him a monster had he not been in the presence of a real one mere hours ago.

But King Claudius didn’t move his men into action either. Instead, they looked on with bitter expressions as, behind Prince Verde, the food lay buried in the mud. And not protected in crates and boxes—no, every ration was crushed and soiled and unfit for human consumption.

After it felt like ages had passed in heavy silence, King Claymore raised his hand and combed his hair back from his face. “Couldn’t you stand to be… a little more hypocritical?”

Verde grinned and hoped his anxiety wasn’t obvious. “I am. Tonight, we’ll both go hungry. But we can get more food from back home. You can’t. Right?”

“Haha, my people are already starving to feed their army, so what more could I possibly take from them?” His hand dropped to his side and reached for his sword hilt.

Verde spoke quickly, “If you leave now, we won’t pursue you. There’s nothing more for you to take here.”

“Huh? But there is more I can take.” Claudius’s chin rose in defiance. “I can take you, your highness, and ransome you for all the food I want.”

The king drew his sword and his men drew their bows, and the conflict erupted immediately.

It was over just as fast, when the young prince found himself face-first in the mud, a much larger and stronger man kneeling into the small of his back, gripping his wrists, and holding a gleaming sword to his throat. When his men hesitated thanks to their prince becoming a hostage, they were shot down without mercy. Verde shivered in fear and indignation, and his nose rotted from the smell of fresh blood soaking into the mud.

“Desperate, boy? Doesn’t feel good, does it?” Claymore mocked, sounding more sorrowful than spiteful. He sighed and forcibly dragged the prince up onto his feet. The young man was promptly restrained and disarmed by multiple men. “I’m preaching to the choir, I know. It’s nothing new for your country to insist that mine doesn’t get a morsel to eat. But burning what we had left, and wasting your own to boot? That’s just insulting.”

King Claymore sheathed his sword and took out his bow, nocking an arrow against the string. “Don’t expect decency from a desperate man, your highness; I can’t afford to keep failing my people or I just won’t have any.”

He aimed at the sky, and fire magic wreathed the arrow. Pulling the string back to his cheek, he loosed it, and it shot into the sky, blooming into a small but bright explosion at the height of its travel. It was the signal for the main force to retreat. Mercator may be a rather uncreative old man, but he was decent enough as a commander. He should be able to beat a retreat without throwing the men into chaos and accumulating unnecessary losses.

“Let’s go,” the king commanded, and his men accompanied him in dragging the captured prince back to their camp.