III: The Battle for Kings
Chapter III - The Battle for Kings
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With no one to lead the Orc Realm in a time of great chaos, Drekkagh, the older brother of the King, steps forth to fill the vacuum. Under normal circumstances, the king's sons, of which there were 14, would compete for the respect of the Shamans, who would appoint the new King of Gokkholm. But this ritual could not commence for as long as the old king was still breathing. Also, in Drekkagh's opinion, they were all too young, too soft, and too naive in the art of war. Drekkagh had been infuriated that the Shamans had chosen his brother as the stronger of the two to lead the realm. But despite this resentment, Drekkagh has no political aspirations. He will hand over the kingdom as soon as he deems one of the heirs worthy; but in the meantime, he will not stand aside as the wretched men of Teria make a mockery out of Gokkholm. Order must be preserved, and the Orc race must maintain their reputation as a people to be feared and respected, not mocked.
Any who oppose his rule will be labeled Skarrav-kaga, outcasts of the Kingdom. It is believed that the only one he feared was Rafas, a decorated War Captain and one of the King's chief advisors. In this generation of tranquility, only Rafas would be able to muster up enough power to stand up to the King's brother. But for now, both stand firm against the approaching wave from Teria after having ordered the execution of the infuriating messenger who dared demand the return of the human king.
"Load the catapults!" beckons Drekkagh as the first lines of the great Dagbor army can be seen on the horizon. The words echo through the streets of Makkada as the army quietly, nervously wait for the attack.
"Allerg harrat! Wreckers ready!" shout back the siege masters.
"Marauders, ready your bows!"
"Urr, Grrr Madda. Make fire!" bellows the maurader captain.
"Tak! Catapults fire!"
And with that, the Battle for the Kings has begun...
On the other side of the swamp, the Orc King nervously eyes two guards from behind the bars of his cage. He overhears bits and pieces of their conversation...
"Ah, you know... Hard to reason wi’ a greenie. Mayhap the messenger don’t speak Orc too good..." says the first.
The second approaches the Orc King’s cage, "This un don’t speak owt at all, do you, Kingy? Miserable bugger." He bangs the cage with the flat side of his sword and the Orc King snarls in pure contempt.
Moments later, an all too familiar figure solidifies before him. The Orc sees him mutter a few lines to the guards, who promptly scramble off. The Orc King knew it was only a matter of time; the shamans had warned him about this miscreant, this gellemakk, the one they call Faramor. The Orc King furiously rattles the bars of his cage, but none are around to hear his pleas.
The wizard approaches and, crafting a knife out of thin air, whispers to the King, "Forgive me, O Great King, I am truly sorry for what I must do."
Snarling, the Orc King stops rattling the cage and responds, "Do what thou must, pitiful wizard. The tide hath turned! The Waves will bury us all and our screams will be drowned by the waters of doom!"
And with that, the deed is done. The Orc King lies still. The wizard is gone.
Meanwhile, things look grim for Drekkagh and his troops. The gellem, the enemy, slaughter orcs left and right as they march for the gate. The Mauraders do what they can to repel the approaching siege towers, but they are left defenseless against Teria's trebuchets.
Sensing the need for a change of strategy, Rafas urges Drekkagh to order the troops to retreat deep into the swamp. The planned reinforcements from Ral Nistro could meet them here, and their mysterious departure would grant the orcs the often-overlooked element of surprise. "Grukk! This no work! We must pull back! Replenish our masar!"
Drekkagh thinly disguises his contempt; he sees the idea as little more than cowardice. They can still win this battle without foreign help. Two thousand orcs dead would be a better price to pay than cowardice. But he knows better than to argue with Rafas. "Gegark! Cakkamakk!" His order echoes through the clashing of swords and the cries of suffering, as the orcs freeze in mid action before fleeing westward, into the marsh. The human army looks elated as hope emanates from their cheers. Did the Great Lake shine upon them?
But their cheers are premature. For just as soon as they overcome their shock, the blood-curdling screams of "Harragen!" roared across the battlefield as the orc horde charged out of the mist - this time, in even greater numbers, with warg-riders and ogres. The wargs trample over the unprepared elite knights of Dagbor as if they were ants. The ogres swing their clubs fanatically as cavalry are thrown into the air with riders grasping to the reins for dear life. Without time to mobilize, the trebuchets are useless, while the human blades do little against the hide of the ogres. The tides have turned. The orderly battalions are no more. All is chaos.
Esok Dreggat! A horn is heard from somewhere within the madness. The wretched humans all-too-anxiously begin to retreat. The cowards run to the hills, never to look back. Drekkagh orders the warg-riders to chase after the fleeing remnants of Erian's army. This would be the last time foolish Erian steps foot in the Orc Realm of Gokkholm...
It has been said that when the Waters turn, they do so with great fury. Prince Erian must now flee before the wave he did provoke, as the great warg-riders of Makkada pursue his forces by the thousands. His army is already in flight, and none now look to their shaken leader for direction. Blood runs thick and free, and if the Prince is to survive, his only hope is the loyalty of his closest companions...
Alex Walz | Former Assistant Producer & Publicist of Reverie World Studios, INC.
Last edited by Alex Walz : 12-08-2010 at 03:12 PM.