The Battle of Bloodneck Valley

Shog, called the Bonecrusher by his people, knew they’d lost when human horns roared across the battlefield. The Imperiate had come after all, to aid their elven allies of the Alish’tae Republic. Shog’s people, orcs of the Galak Tribe, so named after the mountain upon which they’d once lived, fought hard and well. But they fought alone.

Orcs no allies. Not even their Gods, the Old Ones, cared anymore.

As the morning sun crept above the clouds, illuminating the blood soaked fields, the Imperiate horsemen charged out from the forest. Muk’nola, matriarch of the Galaks, sounded her war horn, signalling the retreat. But it would be too late, Shog knew. Those horsemen would slaughter them as they fled. Their children, next.

An elf, empowered by the sense of looming victory, stormed forward from their line, straight towards Shog. He parried the elf’s longsword then heaved his mighty hammer, Breaker of Worlds, in a perfect arc. It smashed upon the elf’s helmeted skull, and he proved his namesake for the countless time. The elf’s head exploded in bone and carnage.

“Back!” he heard. “Fall back!” In disarray, the others around him fled towards Bloodneck Valley, where they’d encamped. Their position fell. Shog screamed to maintain the line but knew the day was lost. His people fled. He had no choice but to follow.

He reached the camp, already nearly moving again, fleeing up the valley to the highlands. Shog, exhausted, reached Zee-zee, his daughter, and Gheelah, his love. Gheelah had already packed their yurt and few remaining possessions. “Flee!” he shouted to her.

“And you?” Gheelah asked.

“I stay to hold them back.”

In typical orcish fashion, their utter devotion, love and mutual respect expressed itself only in their shared gaze, never in public, spoken word. He gripped her hand. He told Zee-zee to be strong. Gheelah nodded. Then the doy galloped away with the rest of the fleeing, broken host.

Muk-nola, matriarch, rallied the remaining Galak warriors. They reformed to a single line. Bloodneck Valley was narrow. Rocky. Layered with crimson colored clay. The land elevated as it led to the Highlands, their only advantage.

Maybe at the height of the tribe’s strength, before the humans had come with their purges and stolen their land, before the elves had arrived to ‘cleanse the world of evil’, maybe they would have been strong enough. But Shog saw they had a few hundred left. A few hundred to hold a line against an entire battalion of Imperiate horsemen and Alish’tae swordsmen, the latter no doubt already being reinforced.

The ‘Fair Folk’ would aim to eradicate the Galak now, as they fled.

Shog marched up to Muk-nola. She hailed him. “Yog-Sothoth burns in us,” she said.

“Yog-Sothoth hasn’t given a shit about us since Galak Mountain ceased its fire,” Shog replied.

Imperiate horns loomed. The sun flared, blinding Shog for a moment. Another disadvantage. The ground rumbled with the cavalry charge.

“Either way. I’ll crush his soul in hell. Right after I’m done with these Fair Folk.”

Image source: Wikimedia Commons

In less than an hour after the cavalry had charged with extreme prejudice, Shog’s eyes tried to sieve the light through his mud plastered eyelids. His eyelids fluttered, unsure of whether to grand access to the blinding light. There was something about the light; it felt divine, as if Yog-Sothoth’ fire blazed in its majestic splendour in front of him. For a brief moment, he tried to savour the light and the promise of peace and freedom it brought with it. For a brief moment, all was well, until the crushing sound of metal against bone forced him to realise where he was.

He tried to open his eyes further as tiny lumps of mud scrambled over the white of his eyes. He saw the sun, its light casting judgement on his soul. A saving shadow from a walking figure grew over him, forcing an admixture of emotions. For a second, he thought he had found respite, until the shadow turned away and his heart quaked as bones crushed under the heave of a hammer.

Years spent in battle had forced a reflex into his limbs. He felt for his hammer as his eyes flashed a glint of fire and rage and… his hammer was lost. His bided his back to rise as his narrow eyes sought the hammer among the strewn of mortal flesh and dismembered bodies. The shadow moved over with a familiar object in its hand.

Shog rolled on his side and balanced his study frame on his feet. A sharp pain in his right hand forced flashes of a memory otherwise forgotten: his mighty hammer, Breaker of Worlds, flying in the air, swooping down on heads and limbs, with sounds that testified to his perfect swings; the unexpected rider from behind; the blind arc propelled by reflex; the fall of human and horse on the tired body of the orc and the temporary relief from the battle that continued.

The shadow was an elf’s; his slender frame unsoiled by the mud and blood that refrained on the field like stripes of a tiger. Shifting his weight, Shog saw the fingers twitched on a body at the feet of the elf. His eyes turned to the elf, taking in the calm and sobriety on his face, a false representation of the hate against the orc being pumped by his blood.

His left leg moved and then his right, forcing his way over slippery flesh, rough body amours and bones that cracked until he neared the elf with the familiar hammer in his hand. The jump was short and precise. Shog’s left hand, fuelled by rage at what had happened and loyalty to the body on the ground delivered a blow so hard he struggled to keep his balance as the elf slumped, satisfying and fuelling his rage at the same time.

The arrow missed his shoulder as he turned. His heart beat in anticipation, waiting for the first soldier to charge. Instead, two purposeful arrows found their targets in his heart. The last thing he saw as his legs gave up the ghost was the war horn beside Muk-nola.