i PREFACE
||| This story is a serialized draft and may differ from its final published form. |||
"Archers!", the Knight Commander announced the order that would begin the deciding battle of the campaign. They had been away from home, deployed for over three years deep in enemy territory. Much had changed about themselves: ranks, hearts and minds; however, the war itself remained unphased — it's endless sorrow, brutality and vengefulness breathed heavier day by day. Combat. Death. Survival. The soldiers cycle — to be lived within or died for, there was no third option.
"Nock!", this battle felt different. For one leader, the training wheels were finally off. He was no longer interim Brigadier Commander Calin — he was Brigadier Commander Calin, proper. "Draw!", the twang of tightening sinew and creaking black oak answered his command. With a final briefing, ceremony then salute: before stepping down, Calin's predecessor passed on both the reins of command and the vital intelligence needed to unleash a full assault with confidence.
On the cusp of the moment, his mind traced back to the many times he himself had reacted to the Brigade's elite Archer unit — Squadron Arrow —kicking off battles. Arrow was now his elite bunch of marksmen. It was he who would lead them to victory this day. "LOOSE!"
The whistling harbingers of death rose skyward, blocking the sky and spreading a growing shadow of doom over the enemy encampment.
The Knight knew this enemy well. His scout and expert infiltration force had been pushing the Orc Regiment into chaos and retreat for the past three months through guerilla tactics: tampering with their food supplies and targeted nighttime ambushes. It was the intel gathered through these tactics, of the Brigade's most skilled scout platoon: 'The Shadows' that had also confirmed the Orcs did not have any reinforcements coming, any time soon. Calin's specialized Shadow Plattoon — the unit in which he'd led before taking command of the entire Brigade — had done well in forcing the enemy into a tight valley, closed off on three sides. Vigilance was paramount now; Orcs are never more ferocious than when their backs were against the wall. To prevent the false retreat from being a trap, was Calin's charge as the battle commenced.
The nearest Orc allies were a day's march east, in the seized township of Halfensteid. They would be staying in Halfensteid longer than they probably expected, dealing with the Cobra Squadron troops Calin and his predecessor had sent. Even without the rearguard taking hell to those Orcs, Halfensteid was still far enough away to warrant this final attack. His main focus was to take out the brutal Orc Commander Lerriz. A towering terror of tremendous violence. The oversized behemoth of an Orc was rumored to wield a war hammer, whose handle was laden with the skulls of men he'd nailed out of existence. Lerriz would not allow himself to be taken prisoner, nor would he lay down arms from being outmaneuvered. Of that, Calin was certain. Today would undoubtedly be the final day for one of them, if not both. The Orc troops hunkered down in the valley for about a week. Buying time. That time was now up. Today would be his day, Calin thought.
Three nights prior:
The Orc General could snap the puny human's neck with little more than a pinch. Every one of his Orcin warriors knew it. They tolerated the human's arrogance only for the sake of their leader. The Orc warriors gripped their weapon hilts, prepared to strike at every perceived slight. Every error was eyed suspiciously, every stutter, each word deemed a lie until proven otherwise. Human kind could never be trusted—such was the decree of Orcin birth. The puny skin bag was lucky to be allowed a meeting at all with their great leader, as far as they were concerned.
The man and Lerriz discussed the shipment of angiba leaves—a plant that grew only beyond the Gorgarath Mountains, deep within the Orc Kingdom. The snake-eyed human wanted to meddle in Lerriz's side of the business. The human pressed for details, questioning how the Orcin plant had been smuggled past both monarchies undetected. Lerriz was curious why he needed to know all of a sudden...
The human claimed to be high-ranking within his brigade...
According to General Lerriz—who had neither knowledge of nor interest in human hierarchy—the man's status meant nothing. The man was meaningless and completely unaware of the dangerous truth in which he presently stood: The audacious act of being human meant he was no equal.
"Which of these creatures are you entrusting with my delivery?" The human insulted his men once again.
Lerriz took a long swig from the bowl-sized goblet at his side, allowing it to fall empty from his lips. A Orcin winch retrieved the rolling cup the moment it struck the ground. Lerriz let out a loud, wet belch, splattering the female Orc's upper torso with frothy spittle. Disgust rippled across the human's face, but the weak man couldn't help but stare at the servant's coated breast. Her clothing was tattered, torn, not much covering for imagination to be necessary. Lerriz enjoyed the expression so much that he blew the burp's stench in the man's direction. As his face twisted further, the Orc's all laughed. The deep, bellied laugh from Lerriz lasted longest as the winch scrambled away from the meeting.
"Dugar!!" The Orc beckoned one of his men with a wave, his cold, judging eyes never leaving the human's widening pupils.
The Orc bounded into the command tent, stone-plated armor clanking as he entered. They spoke low and in Orc tongue before the subordinate was hastily dismissed. As if the secrecy had never occurred, Lerriz returned his attention to the man. He made a point that his disrespect was always blatant, when dealing with the weaker race. "Your plants are en route...that is all you may know. Leave this place human."
Without objection, the man stood, snatching his sword and cobra-branded shield from the tent guard as he left. The same guards who had escorted them in now walked them out of the camp, resuming their post silently.
Lerriz joked with his warriors as the men departed. "...carrying shields painted with animals they could never tame...". They laughed well into the night—neither man appearing to them as Cobra nor Wolf.
••••••
Lerriz was protected on three sides by terrain and commanded one of the Orc Army's most formidable trebuchet units. His cavalry rode the most aggressive beasts the Knight had ever encountered—the Orcs called the beast snyrpinns. They were six-legged, reptilian creatures—some with spiked tails, others armed with venomous stingers. Most lethal were their beaked mouths, lined with double rows of razor-sharp teeth. It was believed amongst the human army that the Orc had engineered these monstrosities somehow, they were known throughout the realm for their use of dark, arcanic sciences.
It was also known that a well-placed arrow, to the eyes or a brave foot soldier's blade beneath their armor was enough to bring one down. This battle would be costly, there was no avoiding that fact. But it was now or never. Defeating Lerriz in his first battle as Brigade Commander—before returning to the Capitol—would be a tremendous victory for the war effort. It would undoubtedly destabilize the Orcs' plan to secure supply routes throughout the region. Lerriz was the only reason they had not choked the Orc of supplies through the winter. This Orc General had taken out two Brigades worth of men himself, throughout the years.
"Onward!" The Knight commanded as both Arrow and Darkhorse Battalions rode behind the hail of arrows toward the enemy encampment. The Trebuchet response was imminent, expected and devastating.
The first impact crushed a heavy steed and rider, debris felling all those nearby.
The Knight witnessed the first of his casualties just like that, mere seconds into the fight. "Sound the north horns!!" He called on Cobra Battalion to make its move sooner than planned. At the call, he looked ahead and saw a cascade of liquid fire descending from the valley's highest peak onto the Orc camp.
The Orcs panicked. Stricken with confusion, they stampeded from the sticky flames as their encampment caught flame. It was working, Calin thought to himself with relief.
"HORNS!!!!" The Commander yelled out.
The second signal called the remaining Arrow and Bandog troops to complete the ambush.
Orchestra of a Commander.
Archers loosed rope-bound arrows into the flame-engulfed Orc camp...
The Bandog riders seized the lines and rode into the camp—men willing to sacrifice armor for the advantage of surprise...
The Bandogs landed on the camp with malicious intent, immediately slashing through the confused Orc soldiers...
Their goal was still intact, within grasp...
..."Sound the drums!!"...
© 2025 Kacy Gilbert.
This story is an original work of fiction and is shared here as a serialized draft.
Unauthorized reproduction, redistribution, or use without permission is prohibited.
