Quest TGNW: Is fearr rith maith ná droch sheasamh

[Kjaran Mak Aodha]

"Better a good run than a bad stand"



The day was cold.

Kjaran spat on the ground and leaned on his shovel. The ground was still hard and only begrudgingly yielded to the metal spades. They’d dug a shallow grave, enough to cover the score of corpses from their band. They lay side by side in the long trench, faces to the sky.


The same couldn’t be said for the century of Blight Orcs. Some had been piled up in a pyre while others lay where they’d fallen. They’d been hacked down or shot, with the wounded sprawled where their throats had been slit. The centurion’s head was mounted on a freshly cut stake, his face twisted in a grotesque rictus of pain.


It was a victory, but a heavy one. A more rational enemy would have broken but the orcs had stood their ground to the last. The last dozen had broke ranks only to charge and lock blades with their ambushers. A human warband wouldn’t have had the courage to press home against such overwhelming numbers. Even still, their heavy armour had put them in good stead against the lighter armoured skirmishers. Their own auxiliaries had died just as well.


Kjaran shook his head and resumed shovelling. Those without them stepped forward to throw a symbolic handful of dirt onto the mass grave, murmuring their own farewells. Nothing more, just a return to the earth and worms. A soldier stooped, her hands tugging at a pair of boots still on a corpse. The dead would need them no longer. “You’re on your way to the feasting halls now” he murmured, dumping dirt over a corpse. The dead warrior looked young enough to be his child. The dirt hit the open wound that had all but eviscerated him.


“Let’s hurry it up!” came the call. The two marked as trailblazers were already jogging off. The advanced section of six soldiers was forming up to follow on after. Kjaran redoubled his efforts, letting the dirt splash over the dead. Others threw stones atop the dirt, a futile gesture to keep scavengers away. “We should have raised a cairn” Truan Barry said. Kjaran took a wheezing breath and straightened up for a moment. “And let them know who did it?” he asked, “T’would be better they don’t even know we were here”.


A true masterstroke would have been to hide the orc bodies too and let Molthal think the forest had just swallowed them up. Kjaran was damned if he was going to be digging graves for scum. Let the carrion have them. “The cunts didn’t even have to be here” he said, his voice turning savage. He threw a last load of earth on the grave. A groan of relief to be finished. He was getting too old to be out beyond enemy lines and bushwhacking orc columns.


Barry helped him stow the short handled shovel on his pack. Kjaran tightened the straps and checked his sheathe and arrow bag was secure. He was sweating from the exertion despite the chill in the air. And he wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of another forced march. He closed his eyes for a moment and visualised the roast meat, ale, and roaring fires they’d find at the fort.


“I don’t know how people live out here” Barry said, shaking his head. Kjaran flashed a smile that was all teeth, “It’s heaven compared to the Blightlands. And fuck letting Menalus get more of a foothold here”.


He started off marching, joining the rest of the silent column as they filed into the woods. The rearguard lingered a few moments more before leaving the clearing to the dead.


OOC: https://chroniclesrp.net/threads/the-great-northern-war.1212/

 

[Ktaris]

Drums. Chanting. Beast Tongue gnawing at any shred of silence, and their watchers keeping score.​

Somewhere in the woodlands, fierce war chants could be heard, and pounding drums foretold of who was to come to anyone vaguely close. The Minotaur warchorus had descended upon the Gulf of Ryt. Not a common sight to be sure but known to those old enough to have heard it or the stories of sporadic encounters. Tales of them showing up unexpectedly to tilt the odds one way or the other.

Long sea voyages had given way to a period of camping and rest. A blood hunt had been called and the wildtaste for that would need to be sated. Beast tongue growled outward from the tents, as both silent Tundra elf and loud war beast sat by dimly lit fires. It was cold and that was preferred for these northerners of a different type, a perfect time to hunt.

Groups of large thickset black minotaurs chanted to their weapons, holding them high, and calling to their arena gods, grateful for this opportunity to leave Enigma city walls for a time. They were armored in a variety of savage gear, a few with half-plate, some had chain, many had layers of leather, and all had thick leathery hides, their weaponry mirroring their innate savagery. Every year it was a good idea to let them get their taste for battle else they became restless. The towering cyclops with them sat docile by their side, hand-reared from a young age they were not as wild as you might expect but instead fiercely protective of their keepers, each wearing a grilled iron helmet to protect that vulnerable eye area. With large equipment sacks being readied behind them...

From where he sat away from light or indeed anyone else at all, Ktaris could see Warlord Ru Horvos the legendary Blackhorn raise his clawed hands upward toward the arena gods, growling to the sun above to rest within his very axe. The fasting had begun and the hungrier the minotaurs got, the more their taste for battle grew. He had the scars of a hundred fights in the clawpit arena upon him, which is usually the only place the warchorus could test their mettle and decide their dominance unless an opportunity like this arose.

Ktaris like many of the Tundra elf agents here was in his black iron, sleeker and thinner than regular plate but still carrying most of its protective qualities, black chainmail covered the usual gaps. With his usual bags of alchemical tricks on his waist. He had his handcrossbow and longword alongside them, carrying a kite shield on his back. Sharpening his weapons and applying a thin layer of debilitating poison to the blades, he looked over his work, much like the other Tundra elves here they didn’t fight fair.

The minotaurs, on the other hand, loved fighting fair, their chanting a challenge called to all and sundry. Who were they hear to support? Man, Orc, Neither? Time would tell. For now, only the drums were known.

Tags:
Kjaran Mak Aodha

 

[Dianaimh Ui Muirgheal]

Fort Jaipur, northwest of the Spine, south of Rytian Gulf.

The fort was miserable and Dianaimh hated it.

It was a typical frontier construction, mostly felled timber and excavated dirt. A circular ditch had been dug and the dirt heaped up in a rampart inside it. A solid wooden palisade was built atop it while an earthen hill inside the defenses held a thirty foot tower, large enough for a dozen archers to operate without difficulty. Defensive stakes were stuck in the ditch and outside it while fighting platforms inside the wall were spaced out every twenty feet.

An army would crush it but it was enough to forestall any attempt by less than a thousand. The effect was marred by the shanty town that had sprung up in and around the defenses. The few solid structures inside were swamped by crude huts, tents, and lean-tos. A small town was springing up around it, drifters, traders, hunters, and others. The commander tried to keep order but every few days there were new heads mounted on the gatehouse.

Still it had done some good for morale. No one enjoyed living off iron rations like hardtack and pemmican, least of all orcs. The fresh meat, berries, vegetables, alcohol, it made life much improved, if only tolerable for Dianaimh.

She picked her way delicately through the mud, hitching up her skirts in a futile effort to avoid the muck. It was everywhere in the north. The bastards seemed to revel in it. She was dwarfed by the looming orcs and other warriors that made up much of the garrison but even still, they were quick to get out of her way. Some made signs against evil, hoping to avoid drawing the ire of the sorceress. Tramping into the tower, she shivered and warmed her hands against the brazier. The sentries politely studied their feet or the ceiling until she had gone past.

Garak Longtooth was by the table with the rest of his command staff. An enigma. The Blight Orc was calm, soft-spoken, and even literate. Intelligent to rise to such a rank but Menalus's purges had a way of ensuring that those too smart had a way of getting themselves killed.

"You wished to see me?" she enquired, her voice tart. The orc grunted and indicated the map. "Tell me what you see". She professed to act as if she had just spotted it, leaning in and peering at the dagger embedded in it. "My my, is this where we are?".

"Enough of your games witch". The orc officer was in no mood to spar. Dianaimh allowed a sigh and bent to study it again. Blue for their own forces, green for allies, red for hostile, grey for neutral. Different blocks for fortifications, bases, columns. Others for the sites of clashes, with far too many going to the red. Every hour it changed, couriers arriving and departing with fresh news and orders though Garak wondered how close the map reflected reality.

“You’ve lost another column” she observed, ignoring the bristling from the orcs. A delicate finger stabbed the point where it had occurred. “But there’s been trouble behind the lines too”, her eyes flickered up to meet his.

He grunted. “A resupply. Six wagons, a half-century escorting it. All gone. A patrol found them disembowelled”. His teeth flashed. “Most of them were missing ears, noses, or fingers”. There was no warmth to the smile and she could have sworn some of the other officers looked mildly queasy.

“Oh my”. Dianaimh seemed nonplussed, “I could have sworn they’d give us a miss”. “Who?” “With luck it was just a hunting party your convoy ran into. If we’re unlucky then this is about to get bloodier for all sides”.

 

[Ceit]

The Blackhorn, the Minotaurs' Camp

The emissary rode through the minotaur camp. A small escort filed after them, threading between the fires. The chanting and drumming beasts seemed oblivious to their presence, focused instead on drilling themselves into a frenzy. The drumming was relentless, one pattern leading into another, a non stop cacophony of sound.

The orc tried to hold his distaste for his surroundings. There seemed to be no order to the encampment, chaos reigned. Tents and shelters were set up anywhere there was room, radiating out from the central arena. There seemed to be little discipline, just untold numbers of the brutes, chanting and calling to the sky.

He dismounted, brushing dirt from his cloak. The standard banner planted Menalus's standard in the dirt next to the mounts, a red flame on a field of black. Four guards escorted the emissary towards the arena where the warlord was leading more of his pack in a chant to their gods.

Ktaris

 

[Arianrhod]

Site of ambushed orc supply train.

The wind blew through the trees.

The figures standing on the crest were so still that they seemed to be part of the trees. Only their cloaks moved a little in the breeze, none showing any discomfort from the biting chill. Their gaze was focused down slope, on the road.

The torched remains of the logistics wagons were strewn across the road. Bodies were heaped in among them, most with two or three arrows protruding. A larger clump were together when some had made a hurried shieldwall, then a line of several more where the last had made a run for it.

Arianrhod breathed out, revelling in the feel of the cold air. Her sharp eyes watched, not missing a single detail. The patrol had blundered onto the remains more by chance than design. She could pick out the signs of shock and dismay even from her vantage point. Their commander had shown enough sense to put out picquets but they were too close to the road to give warning. She could have been amongst them in seconds after slaying the sentries. Better to risk losing them than be taken by surprise.

No one liked losing, orcs least of all. The forest and mountain were no place for those drilled in fighting shoulder to shoulder. The legions might have subjugated the Blightlands but their numbers counted for naught in the trees. The green heart of the woods would devour them.

Their columns had been crossing the rivers for the last two weeks. Curse their foulness in its clean water! Long enough to disrupt other of her kith. The Bear Clan had halted their migration northward. A shaman of the Ravens claimed to have been granted an insight while fasting on Cruach Dubh but she placed little worth in their madness. Arianhrod held some skill in the arts but she would never lose a chance at chieftain to take up the headdress of a shaman.

"Huntmistress" the interruption was gentle. "Do we press forward?". She shook her head and reluctantly stepped back from the crest. "No. Leave them to carry word to their comrades. Let them know fear first". Word of this would spread.

A few moments later and the elves had disappeared into the trees like ghosts.

 

[Ktaris]

If anything the drums got louder as an outsider approached, though most were too focused on their arena gods to register anything but the warchorus beating frenzy into their drums. So much so you might wonder how long those instruments lasted under the onslaught.

Wildstream was channeled into the muscle and bone of those participating. Teeth gnashing at its apex. Not some great mystical power, more a combined feel, like you might experience at a concert or in a throng of a crowd. Like it or hate it, it was often difficult not to feel that energy or buzz.

Chaos was a very apt way to describe it. Those here embodied it. Confusion and uncertainty was hammered into sound. Piercing noise cut through the thumping chorus, with a clash of metal gauntlets coming together. The minotaurs closest to the messengers pulled back a step to allow them access to Ru Horvos. Their chests rising and falling as they stood to the orcs side, you could almost see the frenzy waiting to be unleashed. Ahead and moving forward, the Blackhorn himself was now painted decorated in a deep crimson red warpaint, matching the many scars across his body.

There was an Elesion given, meaning a cross between a long roar and a growl as the orcs approached. In literal terms it meant an acknowledgment that didn't involve killing something. A typical introduction in the middle of such an event. Stomping his hooves closer, the Ru waited for their words, eager to begin.

About now the more observant of the orcs might see a Tundra elf or two, but they were damn hard to spot in this sprawl even when they weren’t hiding. Two of them, Ktaris and Belanii were closest, moving around the warchorus and hard to keep eyes on for long. Apart from a shifting shadowy shape, no magics were in play, just a keen use of shadows and rotating line of sight obscuring the elves. A pit of vipers would be a good way to describe the feel, that or just an angry maw waiting to bite.

While nobody stood behind them, Ktaris’s paranoia had him angled slightly off to their side, taking a step closer now as they reached the Ru. The hooded Tundra Elf form watched on observantly, how many more of his kind were here was impossible to say for certain, only that they were always watching.

Tags:
Ceithernach

 

[Ceit]

The Blackhorn, the Minotaurs' Camp

The minotaurs appeared to get larger the closer they got to the warlord. He was surrounded by the pride of the herd, those who had earned their reputations through the hunt. The guards kept their hands on the hilts of their swords, focused on the beasts around them.

Using auxiliaries and native allies was a double edged sword. It felt like herding beasts, prodding them towards the enemy and then unleashing them. He'd been at the sacking of towns when they'd sent in the irregulars first, you'd be lucky to find two bricks left atop one another. On the other hand, they made good wall fodder, soaking up the arrows that were meant for the legions.

At least with auxiliaries they could be ordered. 'Allies' and mercenaries required a more diplomatic touch. Though judging by his surroundings there would be little of that needed here. Unfurling the scroll, he inclined his head in a bow. "My lord Menalus gives you greeting and thanks you for your crossing of the Gulf".

Now the pleasantries were out of the way, they could get down to business. "Do you have a force ready to march? A human fort stands before the river. My master wishes to see it destroyed" and with luck it would secure their flank somewhat. "We have no soldiers in the area, any you find there are free to hunt". With allies such as these, it would be a liability sending a legion in with them.

He'd brought maps but he doubted if they would make much sense of them. "You have many warriors, it will be a fine blooding for them".

Ktaris

 

[Ktaris]

Tags: Ceithernach
The Blackhorn, the Minotaurs' Camp

Studying the map, Horvus might not look like it, but he was an avid chess fan and while no strategic genius, he knew his way around a battlefield. “We keep slaves.” The Blackhorn stated to the orcs, his common tongue not perfect but understandable. “How many guard fort? How close their reinforcements?” More questions than a savage might ask, but all building a picture for the assault. He’d ask about the terrain, the weather, siege weapons and how skilled their archers were.

“Force always ready,” another large minotaur to his side remarked to the orcs, plated up like a decorated steel wall, even his horns were armored. A comment which got a low full snort from Horvus, almost with abutting of horns to signal he should wait his turn to speak. Bloody the warriors, yes, “Many newhorns keen for battletaste.” The Ru agreed, as was the way of things, the arena only taught them so much.

Ktaris’s senior in the Tome Keepers, Daiches came into view, a slim Tundra elf wearing black iron like most of them. “I will take any slaves with magical talent.” He told the Ru, Horvus snorted again sharply. “Care not for your playthings Elfling.” A small move within the Tome Keepers to gain more shadowmancers and tip the balance in the court to the religious caste's favor. Politics here most of all.

After the orcs had answered, Horvus put a full palm print to a silver parchment and thrust it toward the metal-clad minotaur, you could tell those two had been rivals for a time. By the look of the metal ones decorated armor, he’d had a good few successes of his own in the clawpit arenas.

Over the next few minutes, while terms were agreed, the drumming would begin to cease. Those large sacks behind the cyclops were being readied and attached to their back for later, containing a surprise or two. Tents were being packed up and some interesting looking large beasts were loaded up to carry the goods, docile pack beasts but their size not seen this far west often. There were also a fair share of clubs and nets prepared for the capture of slaves.

“When fort ash, you come, or we send word to you?” The Ru had one final question as if victory was already foregone conclusion. Though that had yet to be seen.

 

[Ceit]

The Blackhorn, the Minotaurs' Camp

The emissary bristled but didn't comment on the minotaur's direct assumption that they would keep any slaves they took. He focused instead on giving as short a briefing as he could get away with. The beast's command of Common was diabolical but it hid a sharper mind than he'd suspected.

"It's a border fort. Used for policing traders, keeping savages at bay. Wood more than stone. Little to fear" he dismissed, "You'll see when you get there. You have the honour of being our vanguard". A legion of Blight Orcs would have crushed it into ash but he didn't have one to spare. So they made do with these. He had the diplomacy to stay quiet while the elf and minotaur argued, though they were careful to keep it polite in front of a possible adversary.

They showed little care of what losses they might take, their victory was only a matter of time. "We will be a half day's, maybe a full one's march behind you" the orc explained. "To you go the spoils. Our own forces are busy sweeping the woods south of here for bandits". He didn't add that they'd already had a supply train burnt out.

Ktaris

 

[Ktaris]

Tags: Ceithernach

The Blackhorn, the Minotaurs' Camp
Marching to the Fort

While the prospect of a wrecked supply train and stone defenses might have oddly motivated the chorus more, the blackhorn respectfully snorted his approval at the final negotiations. Their common was broken in parts, but their beast tongue was again in full swing across the warchorus.

Ready to move except for one detail. A nomination. Ru Horvos stood in the center of the chorus, and they fell silent, so silent you could hear a pin drop, facing him from the furthest points of the former camp. He looked around… walking over to thrust a grey axe into the clawed hand of a newhorn, his first-ever hunt. The beast looked down, took it and began to stomp forward. It was the only one who stayed silent at the head of them all, his responsibility now to lead and when the time came to charge first.

Drums were fixed to their large packbeast’s back, and minotaurs sat atop to begin to beat their approach, the docile beasts of burden were decorated as you might expect by savages, in spikes, plates, ripped fabric, ropes, trophies, a scrap of wood here or there to allow archers to sit, all for show more than defense really. With drums, alongside stomping huge cyclops and packbeast, nobody would be surprised when something was arriving, for you could hear echoes of it far off in the distance unless you were obscured by trees or other natural landscapes. Yet those hearing may not recall what made the wildsound, or the wildstream as it was known to wilder folk. The old trackers or hunters though, they might understand what it meant and what was coming.

Tundra elves rode alongside the column, which was currently two large pack beast wide. Choosing a sandy brown breed of horse surprisingly, they actually stood out and were easier to spot up close. That is until the sunlight hit them, their horses became obscured and were much harder to spot, reflecting a lot of the light hitting them, even making the black rider that bit harder to keep track of. At a distance in daylight, they were a real pain to see, giving off nothing but a blur from alongside the larger cyclops and beasts of burden. A trick of the horse's coats or their hides to obscure their elven riders in daylight, the brighter the better. It was the first of a few surprises in store and one of the few things about them not colored entirely black.

As he rode off, Ktaris looked back at the orc messengers, from his time spent studying Shadon, lies, and deceit, he guessed something was being held back. The orcs handing them the slaves with no negotiation, sending them off as the vanguard to die first and then following with a gap behind. None of that mattered to him, the Minotaurs needed their seasonal hunt and if this one was bloody enough, next years would be a smaller affair. The stories of it would sustain their cities garrison for a long time to come, and any betrayal ample motivation to allow for more subtle activities later, profit for him.

As the day’s march wore on, his eyes ever sought forward, what did they see first...

 

[Kjaran Mak Aodha]

Forest between Mad Dog's Folly and Minotaur Camp
A column plots their move

Kjaran pushed back through the long line of soldiers. Most knelt or crouched, grateful for the brief rest. Their cloaks were wrapped around them against the drizzle, arrows nocked to bows. The only sound was the breeze and the occasional shuffle as someone switched position.

It was hard to fight the sense of anticipation. Picturing downing a few pints and a belly full of roast meat. Reluctance to put aside the daydreaming and focus on the job ahead. He forced the thoughts away and pushed past the tail of the column. He could see Barry moving on his right out of the corner of his eye, on a parallel trail.

The forest seemed to close in on them as they left the column. Another fifty, sixty yards, then a bird called out. He crouched and his eyes caught a slow wave from one of the rearguard. He jabbed his hand twice forward and Kjaran nodded to show he'd seen it. He moved forward again, bent double until a hiss from a tree motioned him over.

"Thought to find you on the trail" he whispered, "Ja, why I''m not on it". Darach was grim faced which meant little new. He'd have borne the same expression announcing a marriage or festival. He had no arrow nocked but he crouched with an eye focused on the trail, his head constantly turning as if hearing something.

"You hear it?" "Your ears are better than mine. And younger". Kjaran's attempt at humour went over Darach's head. Then the first whispers of it came to his ear.

You stayed quiet in the forest unless you wanted to die. Only the big, the bad, and the ugly felt the need and even they could fall prey to it. Anyone announcing their march with drums were either pursuing a deathwish or in large numbers.

"Not ours then". Barry's voice made Kjaran jump a little. He tried to cover his fright with irritation, "Why are we whispering then? They're ages off".

"The main body might be. The rest..." Darach let his voice trail off. They'd have wanted to be right eejits to advance with no scouts or outriders. Kjaran could feel the shakes coming on so he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "And we?"

"Two runners are already legging it to the fort. The wounded and main body will horse it after them. As for us...we'll try to teach them not to sound their arrival". Barry and Kjaran had the grace to wince. Arrows from the trees, then bloody skirmishing through the woods, stroke and counterstroke. It was not going to be a pleasant few miles.

"Time to pay the piper then" Kjaran said, forcing himself to his feet. He was getting too old to be playing tag with hostiles in a northern forest. Why hadn't he just become a priest?

Ktaris

 

[Dianaimh Ui Muirgheal]

Fort Jaipur, northwest of the Spine, south of Rytian Gulf.

"And they're off".

The adjutant's voice seemed almost jovial while she read off the message from the courier pigeon. Another pushed forward some of the symbols on the map to correspond with their new information. Garak grunted and muttered to an aide by his side. "So Ru Horvos marches".

"It doesn't sound like they hail from the Blightlands" "And you would be correct there. Our barbarian...allies hail from Eretejva. Some of them were so eager to fight that they crossed the Blighted Sea on rafts. Everything else is secondary when they declare a hunt".

The orc sounded weary. He lived for war but administrating a legion was child's play compared to handling allies, mercenaries, and auxiliaries. Especially when those terms covered orcs, humans, minotaurs, elves, giants, trolls, and worse.

"Oh they'll take the fort, no doubt about it. We'll be lucky if they even leave scorched ruins behind. There'll be a bloodletting the likes of which they've never seen before and the beasts will be useless to us for a few days while they celebrate. I've worked with barbarians before, it's enough to tear your hair out". The orc made a gesture as if this was to suggest why he had none. "Do you scry witch?"

Dianaimh was caught off guard, "I...well it's not my preferred discipline but to an extent-" "It would please me if you did. There's too much uncertainty. We haven't a damn clue what they're up to in those forests".

'They' covered anyone from the petty kingdoms arrayed against them to every bandit and mosstrooper infesting the woods. Garak drank from a mug and jabbed his finger at a point on the map. "We'll be fighting the minotaurs ourselves if we don't give them something. I point them at a target and they can sate their bloodlust. They take that fort and it opens a gap of some ten miles or more this side of the river".

He'd have killed for more legions but their ruler was as suspicious as he was cruel. A curious form of oligarchy operated at higher levels, forcing commanders to cooperate in order to fight. It limited their effectiveness but it also meant there'd been few chances at usurping the throne.

"If we can get the XIX across the river, that'll be in all our favour. The Fire Lord Himself has promised to reward the first ones cross. Let the humans think they've bled us while they fight the beasts".

 

[Ktaris]

|

Between Mad Dog's Folly and the former Minotaur Camp
Beasts are Best... served cold.
Tags: Kjaran Mak Aodha​

Finding the forest's edge the movement of the warchorus didn’t so much pause as crunch to a stop. Sadly the infernal drums and bestial chorus behind them did not! Growling, spitting and snarling at its edges. Newhorns clustered at the front naturally pooling behind the nominii, the nominated grey axe wielder. With a cough, Ktaris wiped some dust off his arm and cleared his throat.

Further back central and rear to the march, the grey and white frost cyclops would be clearly visible to any and all, towering upward into the taller trees. Standing from fifteen to twenty feet tall put them at about the height of the average castle wall. Many of the males had underhorns curling as large protruding pincer-like mandibles, while the few older females that had come were on the larger size, the younger females always stayed behind to breed the next generation.

One or two of the sacks were being pulled off their back, and it seemed each had equipment built for the cyclops. Behind the newhorns at Ru Horvos’s order, the forward most cyclops were given large sheets of wood pulled over them like a battering ram, logs cut in half and run down their ample-sized body. A simple thick armor and cheap to replace but it gave them the punch they needed. All the cyclops of course still wore black iron grated helmets to protect their vulnerable eye, though it limited their vision, and most had some form of thick shin guards on as that was the obvious next target. Further back, what lay in the other Cyclop’s sacks across their backs, was fun for later.

Now somewhat closer to their fort. The Grey axe Nominii turned towards Ru Horvos and looked for him in the crowd. Atop one of the Azark pack beasts, the Ru didn’t make a move or say a word. He didn’t need to. They waited. They waited. Then the hunt took hold of the newhorns at the front, they could wait no longer and moved forward at speed, their own instinct commanding their drive. The idea of the fort and the blood spilled came closer, taste for battle causing some to salivate in anticipation even before seeing it.

Not a charge. A minotaur charge was naturally a distinctly fearsome thing, this was best described as a forced march without the need to force. Strangely the minotaurs moved in the forest reasonably well. It was not their frozen landscapes, but they adapted to most of the colder northern ground without much trouble. The tempo of the drums only increasing as a result.

The Ru was no fool. While the idea of scouts ahead of the warchorus was distasteful. Three separate hunting parties now moved into the woodland, two filtering out to the flanks so as to eventually arrive, surround and cut off the fort from any chance of retreat. Though nothing could hide the central mass of cyclops, drum and beast moving forward, that was the intent, to hold the defenders focus on the central mass.

Had the elves disappeared again? Who knows, only they weren’t easily visible. The benefit of traveling with a very loud angry group of barbarians is it was easier to hide. Ktaris certainly thought so, atop his steed his crossbow was readied. The tree’s of his flawed ancestors were a sight he detested and he’d burn them all if he could. Burn them? Hmm.

Arrows were soon to fly as beast met man, or rather steel. They could be sure a fearsome hooved and horned charge would follow. Sadly for Ktaris, Tundra Elf, minotaur and Human, forests offered cover to everyone involved.

 

[Kjaran Mak Aodha]

Between Mad Dog's Folly and the former Minotaur Camp

The battle started without fanfare.

The first contact was when the lead elements of a hunting party blundered into an unprepared picquet line. Neither had expected the others to be there. The elves had assumed the humans would be at the fort, the ambushers had been lulled into complacency by the drumming, gauging the distance by the sound. A human took an arrow to the gut, collapsing screaming while his companions loosed more arrows into the brush, being rewarded by a sharp cry. Both sides pulled back some fifty yards before the skirmishing began in earnest along the line.

Kjaran couldn't hear the sounds of steel on his left, the forest and the sound of the drums swallowed up most of it. His eyes were focused on the trail, the first of the milling mass coming into view. "Macha smile on us" he breathed, the beasts were massive.

Truan Barry shot first. His arrow flew through and pierced the chest of one. The beast squealed but didn't drop. The second's pause seemed to last an eternity before Kjaran shot. Then he was nocking and loosing as quick as his fingers could manage. They didn't aim, there was no need to. Nearly every shaft found a target though the minotaurs seemed to shrug off anything that wasn't a mortal wound.

It had only been a few seconds but he was already sprinting back up the trail, dimly aware of others doing the same. The shock of the attack had stalled them for a moment before a roar of anger. They charged forward, their hooves sounding like thunder. Kjaran ran past the next man on the trail, plonking himself down by a fallen stump. He placed four arrows in the ground point first, nocking a fifth.

The minotaurs came through the trees, the eager novices spreading out in their haste to come to grips with the enemy. Another volley of arrows hit them, shouts of pain mixing in with the bloodlust. It checked them for only a moment. Kjaran saw one tall beast run forward, seeming to ignore the three arrows buried in its chest.

He drew back to his cheek as he'd been taught. The arrow took the black furred one in the eye, the monster dropping like it had been poleaxed. He shot the rest into the mass before retreating again. His muscles burned and his breath came in gulps the last twenty feet as he half clawed his way uphill.

They'd left a scattered trail of bodies but it was only a few leaves in the forest. Kjaran's heart sank as he reached the crest of the hill and got a clearer view. The main body of the column was only now coming into view and there were beasts there that towered above even the minotaurs. Worse still, more seemed to come with each minute.

Another pair of exhausted archers stumbled past him, arrow bags near empty. Wheezing a bit for air, he broke into a steady run. The skirmishers moved to disengage as quick as they could, the sheer size of the opposing force now clear.

Ktaris

 

[Ceit]

Mad Dog's Folly

The fort stood on the eastern side of the river. It was built from a mixture of hewn logs and crudely cut stone. It was in a clearing cut from the wall of greenery that seemed to surround it, trees standing so tightly together that at times it seemed like a wall. It was one of many strung along the frontier. Part military outpost, part barracks, part trading centre. A final boundary for civilisation though that was a rich term for what stood westward of it.

One slept by a weapon on the frontier but at least west of the river you knew you might wake to see the morning. Eastward was the domain of the primitive. The war pipes and drum, mysterious fires, and ambush from the trees.

A sensible commander would have built it on the western bank but Mad Dog hadn't earned his title by being reasonable. He'd built it there as a challenge to all and sundry. The fort stockade bore scorch marks to show where those had accepted it.

Keen eyes on the parapet called the alarm as the first figures were spotted. Unseen bowmen took aim while the challenge was called. The drawstrings relaxed at the sight of familiar faces but the arrows stayed nocked.

The first scout stumbled through the gate, collapsing into the arms of the guards. He gulped in lungfuls of air, his chest heaving. He was drenched in sweat from the run but he managed to gasp out a warning. Others emerged from the trees over the next few minutes, carrying the wounded or making their own frantic way to the safety the walls represented.

The sound of the war drums continued from the forest.

 

[Kjaran Mak Aodha]

Mad Dog's Folly

The fighting waxed and waned throughout the day. By night's fall, half the forest was ablaze. Six hours of fighting had seen the once proud fort become scorched and scarred ruins. The first stockade was down and a breach made in the second. The ditch was full with cut logs and arrow riddled corpses.

The torchlight showed dark figures standing at the edge of the forest, out of arrowshot. A stream of arrowfire was continually launched at the walls along with the occasional boulder lobbed by even large figures that stood as tall as the trees.

Another rush was made. A few hundred ran at the fort with axes bared, howling at the sky. They were still a way off from the outer stockade when the first volley hit them. The night lit up with screams of pain and the line seemed to shudder. Another volley checked them, the chargers slowing. The third came and they retreated, stumbling back to the safety of the trees.

"They're pulling back".

"Not half as far as I'd like" Kjaran answered, lowering his bow. The besiegers had kept up a constant pressure on them for hours now. They'd staved them off until now but one strong push and they were gone. "How many arrows have you?"

"Three, you?" "Four". No one else on their section of the stockade had more than a half dozen. "And that's only a few leaves in a forest". The drumming started again in the forest and the howls and cries rose higher. "Oh gods, could they be silent for five minutes?!"

Shadows glimpsed by firelight, figures drawing nearer in anticipation. Kjaran spat over the wall, watching slow flames licking across the damp logs. "Bollocks to this anyways" he swore, nocking another arrow, "Shoot off anything you have. Once that's done, make for the river". "And the fort?" "It's burning all around us. Those bastards are going to be in amongst with the next rush".

It wasn't long coming. The dark mass whipped themselves into a frenzy, chanting repetitively with increasing volume. They surged forward like a tidal wave, refusing to be stopped this time.

Kjaran loosed off every arrow he had before running for his life. Others had the same idea. A thundering crash as the battering ram smashed aside the gate, screaming figures launching themselves through. Some stayed and fought, most ran.

He splashed into the water, the cold making him gasp. He waded on, throwing himself forward so he could swim. Weighed down with nearly thirty pounds of iron, it was slow going. Arrows flew by, wild shots in the dark. He felt himself sinking and pulled upward with desperate strength.

The current caught him and he rolled onto his back. The fort was well and truly ablaze now. There were screams and wild bays of victory. The merry business of butchery and feasting could now begin. Kjaran tried to block out the screams and drifted with the current. He didn't bother fighting with it, just lazily swam with it to the other shore. He was half dead with fatigue by the time he crawled onto the bank.

 

[Naghi]

"A well fought battle then." The voice came at a low rumble, seeming to echo out and reverberate from the giant as he stood upon the river bank.

Just across the expanse of water he could see the burning fort, it's walls having caught aflame and the smoke slowly rising into the air. It was a sight to behold, one that he had seen a dozen times before and would see uncountable times more in the years to come.

There was satisfaction in it still.

He glanced down at the man that had crawled up onto the shore, his armor soaked and his form half crawling in a pathetic display of struggling humanity.

Naghi had no idea if the man was from his own army of that of his enemies, but it mattered now. He had only just arrived in the wake of the battle, sent after the army to ensure that there would be victory. His father was eager for this, more so than he had been for anything in Naghi's living memory anyway. Why he had chosen him he would not understand.

An 'opportunity', the fire giant had rumbled. A chance to redeem himself, a chance to claim back the position that he had once held.

To Naghi it simply seemed like a trap.

Yet here he was nonetheless, following in the wake of an army that had seemingly already succeeded in the first of it's tasks. "Pick him up."

The half-giant said with a sweeping gesture. Two Blight Orcs who had been standing behind him moved forward immediately, grabbing Kjaran Mak Aodha and pulling him up to his feet with a surprisingly gentle touch.