Orcs!

Ngraak watched the approaching wagon with great interest from his hiding place amongst the trees. Not far from where he stood were five of his warriors hiding, waiting for him to give the order. They were impatient and so was he. The past few months have been very hard on the tribe for when the old duke died, his idiot of a son had taken his place and the fool declared war against the orcs, somehow managing to raise a large army to support his cause. Thus, Ngraak and his tribe were driven out of their land and forced to flee south. They finally settled in a small grove, far from the young duke’s men, but their troubles didn’t end there. In the north, whenever they needed anything, they’d raid one of the many merchant caravans that passed through their forest, but now they’ve wandered far from the main road where very few merchants dared pass, and the ones who did, came heavily guarded. Just last week, Ngraak lost three of his warriors to a group of armored knights guarding a small shipment of silks and furs. The supplies they got in return for the goods would not last them much longer and Ngraak had to take five of his best warriors in search of more. They had traveled west for three days when they spotted the approaching caravan, which was now less then two hundred yards from where the orcs were hiding. Several figures on horseback rode on both sides of it - guards, no doubt. Ngraak could not see them clearly as the sun was setting behind them, but he didn’t need to. He could smell them just fine. Six horses, two pulling the wagon and four for the guards. They were lightly armed, armored only in reinforced leather. This surprised Ngraak and he grinned, exposing his pointy teeth. This would be easy, he thought. He signaled for two of his men to ready their bows, while the others got ready to charge. He drew his sword, a marvelous piece of metal he stole from one of the duke’s sheriffs. It was a heavy sword almost five feet long, made of some dark ore. One of its edges was devilishly jagged while the other was razor sharp. Admiring his weapon, Ngraak stroke the black pearl that was set in the ivory guard. For an instant he forgot all the hardships of the past, seeing in his mind only gold and glory. He crept slowly to the edge of the trees. Determined not to let this wagon get away, he waited for them to get a little closer, then gave the order to attack.

The wagon skidded past a large bump in the road, rousing the old merchant from his sleep. He looked about him for an instant, then resumed his slumber, mumbling incoherently. The dwarf, who sat beside him holding the reigns, found the old man’s mumbling quite amusing and he allowed himself to grin. A second later, though, the dark thoughts engulfed his mind once more like the black shroud of night that was now falling upon the small company. He didn’t like this place. If he didn’t have urgent business in Koz-Kathal he would have taken the longer, but safer route there. And he definitely would rather be walking, he thought while uttering some obscenities in the dwarven tongue. Like most dwarves, he didn’t like horses, and he felt safest with both feet on solid ground. The sun was below the horizon now, and the night’s chill was setting in. Three of the guards moved back and forth in their saddles, rubbing their arms and legs to get warm. The fourth was asleep. They were all weary as they’ve been riding since before dawn, but this route was perilous and they dared not spend the night outside the walls of a friendly town. The dwarf looked at the riders wondering how desperate the merchant must have been to venture out on this trip with such poor protection. The guards were wearing nothing more then leather jerkins patched with some scraps of bronze and steel, and they carried only short swords, a weapon hardly suited for mounted combat. He seriously doubted if any of them has ever tasted battle for they were mere boys, no more then seventeen or eighteen years old. The dwarf was almost ten times older then that. Still, that was all the merchant could afford and that was probably why he eagerly accepted the dwarf’s offer to join them and help protect the wagon in exchange for a ride to Koz-Kathal.

The dwarf’s line of though was brutally cut as two arrows struck the side of the wagon. Four large orcs came running from the trees toward them, howling and waving their weapons in the air. The hideous creatures looked especially gruesome in the dim twilight. Their yellowish teeth seemed to glow as if they were covered with some phosphorous venom, and as they ran, hobbling on their short legs, it was hard to discern where their long arms ended and where the swords began. The horses reared in panic and rose on their hind legs. The dwarf cursed, trying to calm them down with little success. At the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the guards’ faces and they were more panicked than the horses. The orcs were several dozen feet away, more arrows flying over their heads, when the four guards turned about and fled, spurring their horses. The dwarf cursed again. He cursed the cowardly guards. He cursed the old fool who was now slumped in the seat beside him, his eyed open wide with terror, and an arrow protruding from his chest. And he cursed the orcs. Grabbing his mace, the dwarf dropped to the ground and prepared himself for battle.

Ngraak smiles wickedly as he saw the four horsemen flee. He charged at the dwarf as the latter gave off a battle cry in dwarven and charged straight at him. Unlike his men, Ngraak knew a bit of dwarven, but all his attention was now devoted to the rushing enemy and he didn’t bother to try and understand his words. Ngraak lunged forward, swinging his sword in a wide arc that would have separated the dwarf’s head from his neck, but it found nothing but air. With surprising agility, the dwarf ducked under Ngraak’s blow, driving the butt of his mace just above Ngraak’s knee. Howling with pain, Ngraak crashed to the ground as his leg suddenly went numb. It took him a few seconds to rise back to his feet, and that was more then enough time for the dwarf. One of the orcs now lay on the ground, the lower half of his face bashed to a bleeding pulp. Ngraak rose just in time to see the dwarf pierce through the second orc’s chest with a long dagger. The was a hissing sound as air rushed out of the punctured lung and the orc fell forward, burying the dwarf’s dagger underneath his foul corpse. The two archers who emerged from the trees stopped dead in mid-charge at the sight of their fallen comrades. The last orc was about to turn and run when he saw his leader pick himself up from the ground behind the dwarf. With renewed courage he charged, holding his sword with both hands high above his head, and brought it down with a force that would split in two even the sturdy skull of a dwarf. The orc felt his blade slash through armor, flesh and bone, but was horrified to discover that the dwarf remained unharmed. With the shaft of his mace, the dwarf deflected the blow so that the blade was now lodged deep in Ngraak’s shoulder. With the same movement, he completed a semi-circle that positioned him behind the orc, putting all his weight to a wild swing of the mace that connected perfectly with the orc’s back. The sound of cracking bones told the dwarf that the orc’s spine was broken. He faltered and collapsed over Ngraak’s body. The two archers, who watched the whole ordeal from a safe distance, fled to the cover of the trees.

The dwarf looked at the foul smelling bodies of the orcs. Their greenish flesh was already starting to turn gray and the dark pools of black blood were growing around them. Their mismatched weapons and armor were no doubt robbed from other caravans, the dwarf thought, for it was in their nature to steal. His eyes fell on Ngraak’s sword. He wasn’t very fond of swords as they were too light a weapon for his taste, still, he could appreciate fine craftsmanship. He picked up the sword and tossed it to the back of the wagon. With a sigh, he climbed up to the seat next to the old merchant’s body, and with a tug of the reigns, rode off toward Koz-Kathal.

Overwhelmed by pain, and his sight blurred, Ngraak saw the wagon grow smaller until it was no more then a dot on the horizon. In his feverish mind, the sting of humiliation and defeat almost outmatched the pain. The image of the dwarf came clear to him now, his words piercing his brain like hot-ironed needles: “Prepare for death at the hands of Terrak Oakenshield!”. And then he thought of revenge. Ah, revenge! The thought shone like a precious jewel in his rapidly darkening world. He reached out, desperately trying to grasp this last thought, long after he could no longer see a thing.

Written by: The Modron, 01/2002