Orc's Drift: Into the Maelstrom...

"Sir, the Orcs have reached the East wall - our archers need reinforcing. There's more of them approaching from the North!"

Brommedir looked coolly at Aydendorn before giving his measured response,

"It is only a feint, dear boy. I anticipate the main attack to fall upon Chardz's Engineers at the North entrance. I trust he has suitably fortified his position and it is secure. We shall remain here. We have the hospital at our back and command the compound from our redoubt."

Aydendorn looked dubiously at the flames that were now hungrily devouring the hospital's roof. Ominous creaks and groans warned of the timber supports approaching their breaking point.

Brommedir went on,

"Besides, our comrades have been ordered to fallback on my signal. Our piper knows the call..."

The two Elves looked round for their regimental musician as slowly the realisation dawned... 

From the East wall came a strangled and desperate whistling and just over the roar of the Orcish battle cry came a faint,

"Spit boy, spit!"

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The Orc charge crashed home and yet the Elves stood firm and gave them one last volley before drawing swords. In the confusion of combat neither side managed to land a telling blow but the weight of Orc numbers forced the Elves back from the wall. Backed into a corner with the burning hospital behind them, the Elves made ready to sell their lives dearly.

The sappers had finished preparing the defensive ditches, and as no archers came streaming back from the outer wall as expected they happily hunkered down there, hefting their picks and mattocks in readiness.

Chardz had been contemplating their position. Unhappy that the mealie bag wall they had thrown up was sufficient, he ordered his sappers back to also dig ditches in front of the redoubt and the waiting Elf archers.

With the renewed strength lent to them by desperation, the Elves fought back against the Kwae Karr who had broken through. One Orc fell to their assault, the others unable to penetrate the wall of blades put up by the archers.

Much was the cursing and swearing that darkened the air above Snart. Despite having the horse and ox under his magical control, it was still a struggle to coax them around to the right direction. Eventually the small party looked as though it were ready to leave and not a moment too soon.

The perilous sounding creaks issuing from the stricken hospital began to grow and crescendo. With a great crash the entire structure folded in on itself, sending out great clouds of sparks, ash and smoke. The Kwae Karr archers, who had just peppered it with another volley of flaming arrows, whooped with joy at the destruction they had caused. Bagrash also smiled, as he rubbed his smoking finger having unleashed another fireball in the same direction.

The call was echoed by the rest of the Orc horde as it continued to lap around the walls of Orc's Drift in hungry waves.

The Vile Rune Orcs edged further forward, threatening Chardz's now unprotected outer wall.

While Grashak Kra's hounds leapt the barricade and made for the Dwarfs busily digging beyond it, closely followed by the long-legged and, by now, completely ravenous Guthrum Mane!

Magyar laid about him in a terrible rage, incensed at the Elves rebuff to his charge. One of the archers fell to his onslaught and a few of his Orc warriors got a good cuffing for their lacklustre efforts. They were over the wall, but found themselves locked in a fight to the death - even if the Elves had had somewhere to run, they weren't going to.

Bagrash looked on at his handiwork and let out a cry of exultation. The archers had some small part to play in the destruction of the hospital, but it was he, Bagrash the Scabrous, who had brought the Elves' stronghold down around their pointy little ears. 

Still feeling power coursing through his very being, Bagrash stepped forward looking for his next victim. Of course there was one small bit of him that wasn't throbbing with sorcerous might. The shaman paused to reach down under his loin cloth for a good scratch. 

None of his preparations had worked, and he , as educated as he was for an Orc, was running out of letters of the alphabet for each new and improved version. "H" had been the last preparation he had tried to no avail.  

Bagrash withdrew his hand and sniffed at his finger, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Then the idea struck him. He looked again at his extended finger and then over to smoking remains of the hospital. His eyes flickered back and forth between finger and charred ruins, mulling the pros and cons of his daring new plan. Finally the old Orc's gaze came to rest on his offending appendage...

  As blackened support beams and scorched fragments of daub rained down upon them, Elf and Dwarf alike dived for cover.

 As the dust settled, discipline reasserted itself and archer and sapper once more stood thigh to shoulder.The Dwarf's guarded the approach from the North in their trench and Brommedir split  his detachment to provide all round defence.

Snart's rescue mission entered its final phase, led by the carts departing with their broken cargoes. Following behind and trying not to notice the substantial gaps they had left in the outer defense wall were the walking wounded. Bertolac and Fernbreth limped doggedly onwards, as did Beli and Gymlet, each doing their utmost to drag along a stretcher bearing a fallen comrade.

Brommedir, perhaps thanks to his deafness, was a little less shaken than his bowmen. Surveying the scene of devastation, he caught sight of the two Hobhounds bounding over the outer wall, straight for the Dwarf sappers, now ensconced in their trench.

"Look to your front. Mark your target when it comes. Fire!"

His well-trained bowmen weren't far behind their commander and a deadly storm of arrows stopped the slavering hounds in their tracks.

Things weren't quite so rosy for the archers embroiled in the bloody struggle on the outer wall. Orc after Orc clambered over the mealie bags, slowly encircling the hard pressed Elves. One more fell to the onslaught, taking an Orc with him.

With the clash of steel and the cries of the dying ringing in their ears, Druid Snart and his party finally made good their escape.

The mob swelled, a multitude of savage faces leered out at them. Crude Orcish blades jabbed and thrust at them seemingly from all angles and one by one they succumbed. One young Elf, on the point of breaking under the strain cried out. 

"He was right, the Druid was right! Why are we here? We're doo..."

Catching up the standard that fell from the archer's lifeless hands, the last survivor growled,

"Because we're here lad, because we're here."

Sarjen Bouwern lifted the proud banner, resplendent in scarlet and silver, and brandished it in defiance to the green throng that pressed in on all sides...

With the destruction of the Elf defenders on the East wall, Magyar Ironfist let out a great howl of triumph. The call was picked up in turn until it spread through much of the Orc horde, reaching an ear splitting climax. Then silence. Slowly a rhythmic clashing began to grow as Orc after Orc rapped weapon against shield. The remaining Elves and Dwarfs shifted uneasily in their positions as the terrible rhythm increased in speed and volume. As it reached fever pitch, there came another great cry and the green tide rushed in.

The Orcs charged on all fronts! Ozrim and his engineers felt the ground literally quake as Guthrum Mane thundered into them, closely followed by Grashak Kra, berserk with rage at the demise of his hounds. For one of the Dwarfs, the trench he had dug became his grave, smashed by the enormous glaive wielded by the giant.

The sappers at the main entrance came under increased pressure as the second unit of Kwae Karr Orcs charged in. Despite the weight of numbers against them, the Dwarfs were well protected by their trench.

Magyar's victorious Orcs pressed on through the smoldering ruins of the hospital, charging into Brommedir's small detachment. The Elves, with typical discipline, stood firm and snapped off a quick volley at their attackers. Somehow the Orcs came through it unscathed.

Behind them the Severed Hand Orcs jumped the barricade unopposed and began working their way round the melee to try and outflank the redoubt. The F'yar Guard had a similar plan, working their way round the now undefended outer wall.

As the other detachment of archers dashed over to join their comrades, one Elf fell to a well placed thrust from an Orc sword. Buoyed up by the reinforcements, the archers fought back dispatching one of the brutal creatures.

The desperate struggle between the Hill giant and Chardz' sappers ground on. Guthrum Mane's ill coordinated attacks were easy enough to dodge in the trench, yet the Dwarf's couldn't land a penetrating blow on their tough adversary. That is until Guthrum, mad with hunger and frustration, jabbed down into the ditch, skewering two unfortunate engineers. 

The Severed Hand Orcs joined the fray, charging the Dwarf sappers who stood in their way. One Dwarf fell to their great axes for the loss of two Orc warriors. Sneaking slyly up behind, the F'yar Guard continued their flanking move.

Calling out encouragement to their Hill giant, the Vile Rune Orcs edged forward, waiting eagerly for a gap to appear in the defences to exploit.

The situation was desperate. The compound was rapidly filling with Orcs as they poured in over the uncontested outer walls. The defenders found themselves beset on all sides, hemmed into their central redoubt by the screaming mob. The air was rent with the clamour of battle and the cries of the wounded. Over all this came the voice of the new Orc King, 

"Who dares face me, Magyar Ironfist, King Killer, Crusher of the North and Scourge of Ramalia?"

Aydendorn nudged his commander furiously, lest it be him who was mistaken for the Grand League's Champion,

"I think he means you sir!"

"Eh, what's that? Can't you see I'm a bit busy..."

Before they lost any more face in delaying answering the challenge, Aydendorn took matters into his own hands. With absolutely no thought for his own safety, he span the unsuspecting Brommedir round and bravely propelled him towards the waiting Orc.

Losing his footing as he stumbled forward, Brommedir found himself hurtling straight towards an enormous and very angry looking Chieftain. Unable to stop himself, the hapless Elf blundered straight into his adversary, silver helm connecting with Orc skull. 

Not exactly expecting his challenge to be met in such a manner, Magyar staggered back in surprise. Brommedir had no problems hearing the great Orc's snarl of anger. The tumult around them seemed to fade away as they circled each other warily, looking for a chink in the other's guard...

Orc's Drift: The Clouds Break...

"Oooooozzz Yooooooooo?! Ooooooooooz Yoooooo?!"

The strange, almost eerie call echoed again across the valley. Worried glances flickered up and down the painfully thin Dwarf and Elven lines.

Orcs Drift: The Gathering Storm...

"Careful! Pot that chap somebody! Good fellow, good fellow!"

Brommedir winced as another of his bowmen was skewered by the rampaging Orc King. He narrowed his eyes and glowered at the ever growing Orc column gathering by the bridge that Chardz and his engineers had so diligently repaired. Nodding his exquisitely plumed head in the Orcs' direction, Brommedir turned on his adjutant.

"Aydendorn, what's wrong with them? Why don't they fight?"

Taking a deep breath, the long suffering officer shouted back,

"He's counting your bows, sir."

"What?"

Aydendorn rolled his eyes at his commander's perennial deafness and leant a little closer,

"Can't you see that bloody great Wyvern circling up over the hill? He's counting your archers. Testing your fire power against its thick hide, before sending his horde against us."

Brommedir was about to launch into a diatribe against low down, dirty Orc tactics, when he was interrupted by another tirade issuing from the vicinity of the East Wall. Druid Snart, who was by now literally frothing at the mouth, was busy heaving at one of the wagons that made up part of the defences.

"Death awaits you! You have made a covenant with death and with hell you are in agreement. You're all going to die! Don't you realise? Can't you see? You're all going to die! Die... Death awaits you all! Die..."

The cart slowly toppled back onto its wheels, the crash of its landing putting an even more sudden stop to the Druid's cries. The Elves looked on in bemusement as the madman began hopping around clutching his foot, his face darkening into an even more irredescent shade of crimson than before.

"Death awaits... ooh bugger, my toe... Death, Die... By all that is holy that smarts a bit... ooh, ouch, gah!"

The archer's attention was soon drawn back to the highway, however, as the braying of horns, beating of drums and tramp of many feet began to echo down the valley.

The Kwae Karr were coming...

Osrim Chardz looked up from the great sword he had been impatiently polishing.

"Sir, the sentries report Orcs to the north east. Hundreds of them."

So that's what all that racket was. Osrim harrumphed testily into his beard; the Elves were no doubt enjoying a bit of target practice already - fine if you were into that sort of thing, but definitely not his cup of ale. All this sitting about, manning the barricade, however, was trying his patience.

"Right lads, we're not going to sit here all quiet and meek till the greenskins finally show their faces are we?"

The small group of sappers looked expectantly at their revered leader,

"What do you suggest boss?"

With a hearty grin, Osrim continued,

"Well, you hear that awful din they're making? We're not going to stand for it right. Do you think the Dwarfs can't do better than that, Oswen?

Oswen, one of the stouter members of the company, returned the grin with a wide beam of his own and replied in a voice as rich as Bugman's Stoutback Stout,

"Well, they've got a very good bass section, mind, but no top tenors, that's for sure."

And with that a mighty chorus of Dwarven voices ascended to do battle with the Orcish chant that assailed the very air,

Dwarves so hardy happily dreaming

Of honour, fame and foes a-screaming

Gird yourself with armour gleaming

Onwards to the fight

Dwarves so hardy stand ye ready

Hearts and shi-elds held so steady

Make the base Orc so to dread thee

with thy battle cry

Though the hills be swarming

The foe, his ranks are forming

Take a draught, at danger laugh

 The brew your temper is a-warming

Dwarves so hardy be not tardy

Lest you miss the battle's fury

Wave your burnished axe heads 'fore ye,

Axes of the Dwarves!

Undeterred by the hail of Elven arrows and Dwarven abuse, the Orcs continued to pour across the bridge. Magyar Ironfist, still seething from the implied insult of being sent to deal with the puny defences at Linden Way, led the vanguard of his tribe onwards, brandishing his great spiked mace. Whether his howls and cries were directed at the defenders of Orc's Drift, or at his great and noble king, who circled above the Orcish column, was not entirely clear.

Certainly the king's personal troops, the F'yar Guard, were not feeling particularly welcome amongst the Kwae Karr, and lurked towards the back of the pack.

As the Orc advance ground inexorably towards the compound, Brommedir leaned from his vantage point at the top floor window of the hospital,

"At two hundred yards! Volley fire, present! Aim! Fire!"

At this extreme range only one Orc fell, unnoticed by the seething horde.

Back in the compound, Snart's rescue attempt was gaining momentum, despite the grievous wound to his toe. Having laid out one of their comrades on the cart, Bertolac and Fernbreth headed back towards the hospital to fetch another patient. Gymlet unceremoniously dropped his end of the stretcher, rubbing his back and bad leg furiously. Luckily for the unconscious occupant it was only from Dwarf height that he had been dumped. Beli fliched as his end of the stretcher was snatched from his hands by the impact. Nervously looking over his shoulder, disturbed by the noise of the Orcs' advance, he hurriedly returned to the comparative safety of the hospital.

Meanwhile Snart, seemingly without a care for his own safety, limped out beneath the volleys of Elven arrows, towards the small paddock that lay between the village and the Orc lines.

F'yar came in fast and low, strafing the Elf firing line once more. The bowmen coolly stood their ground and unleashed a volley as the great beast swept down upon them. Both rider and mount were struck but the arrows failed to penetrate their targets.

Once more F'yar's lance buried its head in Elven flesh, while another struggled in vain against the Wyvern's powerful jaws.

The Kwae Karr Orcs kept on coming, a unit of archers following the armoured spearhead onto the bridge.

The bloodied but unbowed Elves let fly another volley at the Wyvern's receding back. At this close range no-one missed and this time one of their arrows found a weak point in the creature's leathery folds. A ragged cheer went up at its surprised squawk of pain.

Brommedir's detachment continued to target the Kwae Karr, bringing down another two Orcs, while Snart made it unscathed to the paddock fence.

 

By now the Orc archers had formed up along the river bank, although at this range they were unlikely to hit their Elf adversaries behind their mealie bag wall.

Magyar and his column surged ever onwards, unconcerned about the dead and dying left in their wake.

F'yar, snarling at the Elf bowmen who dared wound his pet, soared skywards in a great circling arc, in preparation for another pass.

With the aerial threat gone for the moment, Brommedir's bows focussed all their fire on Magyar's unit. Despite the diminished range and all the Elves finding their mark, the Orcs' innate toughness and ramshackle armour protected them from harm.

Whispering into the panicky animals' ears, Snart slowly soothed and gained mastery over them through sorcerous ways. Nuzzling up to the old druid, both draught animals were ready to do his bidding.

Back at the hospital the walking wounded staggered out with the last two bed-ridden patients and made their painful way over to the barricade.

Again Brommedir bellowed out his orders and another hail of arrows sped towards the great mass of Orc soldiery. Despite dropping almost the whole front rank of the leading column, the Orcs continued to lope unconceredly over their dead.

Brommedir turned excitedly once more to Aydendorn

"Ten! We dropped at least ten, wouldn't you say?"

The Elf officer offered a thin smile in response, muttering under his breath,

"That leaves only another 190..."

Seeing that his Orc warriors were almost in a position to begin the assault on Orc's Drift, F'yar brought his Wyvern down to land alongside them. Brandishing his bloodied lance, the King looked down expecting to see his subjects gazing back up in awe and adoration.

Instead a sea of hostile faces glared back at him, foremost of them his old rival, Magyar Ironfist. Before he knew what was happening, a hail of arrows rained down on him - from behind. Although the missiles clattered harmlessly to the floor, the damage had certainly been done. Numbed to the core, F'yar struggled to comprehend what had just happened. The treacherous dogs had turned on him!
With a scream of rage and hatred, Magyar spoke out,

"So F'yar, so-called King, skulker in the shadows and backstabber of the womanish Half Elf King, here we are. You have cast your last slur at me. Now it is my turn.

Your deeds are seen for what they are - a coward's work. You sit there, up on the back of your stinking lizard, lording it over those you deserted at Col Fields.

It is my time now. I, Magyar Ironfist, Crusher of the North, claim the throne.

Get 'im lads!!"

And with that the Kwae Karr tribe surged forward en masse, desperately slashing and hacking at the Wyvern. Taken by surprise, and already weakened by the bowfire of the Elves, the great beast stood little chance. Disemboweling one of it attackers with a swipe of its talons, the beast's dying cries were almost muffled by the other victim it had been in the process of swallowing.

Leaping atop the still writhing corpse of the Wyvern, Magyar brought down his spiked mace in a great ringing blow on F'yars helm. Dazed and blinded by the blood that now oozed down into his eyes, the beleagured king failed to strike back at the pretender.

"Now Bagrash, dammit, now!"

Magyar stepped back from the wounded F'yar and glared at his shaman, who was of course fiddling with his groin once more.

Bagrash looked up unhappily - Preparation H had also failed to salve the itching between his legs, and what was that shouting all about?

"Baaggraashhh - now or I'll have your head as well!"

The shaman suddenly remembered the plan. Pointing his finger at his erstwhile master, Bagrash muttered the words of power and there was a blinding flash...

All that was left of the once mighty King was a blackened mark where he had fallen. The shaman's sorcerous flames had done their work.

Magyar stepped forward and surveyed the sea of green faces around him.

"Look on your so-called King you dogs. Where there was once F'yar, there is now only smoke. I claim the throne unless there is any that would oppose me..."

A sudden outbreak of coughing and shuffling of feet affirmed that Magyar indeed stood unopposed.

"Right then, that's more like it.

Onwards to Orc's Drift!"

Joining Magyar's stirring words came the tramp of yet more Orcish boots - the Severed Hand Tribe had arrived...