The King's Gambit - Fantasy Fiction - 7 Wolds Series - Part Three

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As captain Gream’s words fade, the Westwold general holds up a claw and utters a long guttural command. The orcs stop their advance. Some dive backwards from seventh company attacks to roll back to their feet out of sword range before continuing a controlled retreat.

The Orcish general strides forward spitting harsh syllables across the newly formed area of no-man’s-land.

The highest left in command, Lieutenant Alnader shakes his head in frustration. How to deal with this strange twist?

“Does any of the Company speak Westwold?” he glares at the remaining troops as a slim figure strides forward, burying the Company standard in the mud at his feet.

“Yes, sir.” Willow snaps out a salute. “I learned it in the intelligence division.”

Alnader grits his teeth. “Well, what is that behemoth grunting about?”

“He suggests a truce, sir. His exact words translate something like; your captain makes it clear our best interests would be to butcher these elvish dogs together. I agree with him, then we can finish our business, perhaps.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” the irate lieutenant screams at willow. “If we join these scum, they will just attack us after we’ve dealt with the elves. It’s obvious.”

Willow lowers his voice to a rhythmic, calming flow. “With respect sir, no you haven’t studied Westwold society and honour system as I had to in intelligence division training. The Westwold general is offering an alliance with no stipulations. It is extremely rare that they would even do this, sir. Just as rare as his use of the word, perhaps.”

“Well, spit it out man, exactly what does this mean, and quickly” the lieutenant barks as he waves his arms at the distant figure of Captain Gream diving toward the ground as a rain of death rapidly approaches him.

“Yes sir. The way we have fought brings us honour in their eyes, as much as they could afford an Eastwold. The general’s use of the word perhaps shows that if we fight just as well, and we defeat the elves together, the truce will hold true for this battle. This is just the way they think, sir. They have a code of honour, it is just different from ours.”

The Lieutenant shakes his head, pulls his badge of rank from his shirt and hands it to Willow. “You have my authority to broker a truce, and as you will speak to the Westwold general, I abdicate command for this battle only.” He eyes Willow sternly.

“Yes, sir.” Willow salutes just before he pins the badge to his chest.

“Back in line soldier” Willow nods to the former Lieutenant.

“Everyone, we will move in turtle formations, and those who fight without a shield, scavenge one from the battlefield.”

He turns to the Westwold line and shouts two clear, guttural words.

“Truce accepted.”

The giant Westwold general strides right out of the line of Orcs, walking fearlessly into the middle of the widened battle line.

Willow strides quickly out to meet the general.

“You fight well, man” the Orc grunts, “and command well.”

The giant nods at the rapidly forming shield bunches of the Eastwold turtle formations.

The Orc turns its sinewy neck and shouts at the Westwold warriors “form small shield walls, two warriors deep, to bar their arrow stings from both above and forward.”

Willow speaks faster now, the language flowing back into his memory. “Our shield beetles are more mobile than your shield walls, but we have few spearmen.” He improvises knowing Westwold’s a landlocked nation, and turtles are unknown.

The Orc general interrupts him. “We will move in a staggered formation, small walls anchored to your beetles and make as many alive to the elvish scum that way.”

There is no hint of a question in his voice.

“Yes, then when we get within striking distance, the beetles will charge forward quickly, as the Westwold walls link up. We will break whatever formation they take, then your shield walls and spearmen will have time to pick them off easier.”

“You would be first into the fray?” The giant Orc almost laughs.

Suddenly, they’re interrupted by mingled cheers from both Eastwold and Orcish troops alike.

Captain Gream dives through the mire of battlefield gore as he hears the whistle of descending arrows, snatching up one massive Westwold shield before curling up into a fetal position and pulling the leather strap tight to his shoulder.

Hundreds of adamantite-tipped arrows rain down like a squall sent from hell.

They shudder against the shield with clinks, screeches and the occasion dull thump accompanied by pain. This symphony of death continues for what seems an age as he desperately pulls the shield this way and that, trying to cover all of his balled body against the furious volley.

Silence.

Wind.

Gream leaps to his feet, noticing three arrows have pierced the shield. They scream pain at him, oozing crimson tears despite their shallow depth. But no poison. He feels no poison... as yet. He snaps each shaft, grimacing with each jolt, before pulling the shield free.

His eyes work double quick, assessing the scene.

This volley was a test firing.

A long strip of arrows approximately ten yards wide nestle in the ground like a neatly sown crop.

The elves sprint forward in the distance, some with bows upraised, taking aim.

They know the distance they have to travel before they can hit the Seventh Company and remaining Westwold Orcs with the same deadly volley.

Gream eyes those sharpshooters as he swings the oversized shield strap over his head and sprints back toward the Seventh Company’s line, as mingled cheers echo across the battlefield.

Wind whistles through golden leaves amid towering branches.

The Elvish king glances at his failed sorcerer’s body, which was spat back through the scrying pool as he died.

“Bring the sword from the crypt.” He waves a hand at a silent, hooded servant. “Bring Deathdrinker to me.”

His eyes blaze an unholy light in the deep calm of the eternal grove as he watches the Human Orc alliance advancing toward his troops. The light of his fury illuminates the mother trees, bark flickering like rent steel.

Glaring through the pool’s silver waters at the lone captain leaping up from the onslaught - a bug unwilling to be squashed - the king narrows his eyes as the servant returns, placing a velvet-wrapped object in his outstretched hands.

The king lets the velvet drop to reveal a rune inscribed pommel and handle, gems flashing flecks from within the etchings. An ancient blade extends from the handle, black as night in the depths of a sunken ship. The king touches its tip to his dead sorcerer’s forehead and the blade shivers red tendrils of flame through the black void of the otherworldly metal.

To be continued...

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