Heroes, Chapter 16

Preface: Greetings, all! This is the sixteenth chapter of the tale that began with “Heroes – Chapter 1,” and is the third story is a series that began with “What You Don’t Know,” also located on this site, although it features a mostly-different cast of characters.

As always, my standard disclaimer: The monster girls featured in this tale, and many elements of the setting, are based off of the works of Kenkou Cross, and as such this work is intended to be a tribute to his creativity. The characters, however, are my own. Pray neither sue nor steal; I have very little to take, but I love that which is mine.

Chapter 16 – The Line

          Mid-morning was the brightest time within the cave that housed Viola’s tribe, but still the orcs lazed about, talking and squabbling, napping and playing games.  Viola herself sat perched atop her throne, looking over her subjects with disgruntled disdain, desiring them to go raid or hunt, but knowing better than to pressure them too much.  More and more, the usual discontents had been speaking up, but no one had challenged her for leadership… yet.

     It was boredom rather than tiredness that made her yawn, her mouth gaping wide as she slumped against the armrest of her less-than-comfortable seat.  She blearily rubbed at her eyes, wondering if she could concoct an excuse that would allow her to nap without the others feeling free to plot against her.  Barring that, she could call on Cora to bring her more of the eggs that had been the communal breakfast – again, since they were running low on meat.  The hunters had been particularly lazy recently, despite Viola’s motivational scoldings- er, speeches.  She would see to their insolence and bring them to heel, sometime later.  Perhaps after her nap, or lunch.

     Viola’s heavy eyelids raised in gradual awareness as she saw the shadow extending into the cave, gradually shrinking as the woman casting it drew nearer to the tunnel’s mouth.  There was something about the shape of that form that brought the orc upright, her brow furrowing as she read the familiar motion of that dark facsimile.  Her hands gripped the armrests of her throne, and then even more tightly, as epiphany trickled into her mind.  With an indrawn breath, she realized the truth the moment before the invader strolled into their sanctum, but it was too late to shout to the guards – had she remembered to post guards yesterday?

     She didn’t have time to wipe the expression of horror from her face before the intruder emerged, smirking directly up at her, massive axe slung casually over her shoulder – Berala Blackaxe had returned, and she looked more sure of herself than ever.

     Viola couldn’t manage to say anything before a ripple of awareness spread through the rest of the tribe, heads turning to gawp at the high orc as she sauntered into the center of the chamber, approaching the tables where many of the orcs sat chatting.  Others around the edges of the cave drew inward as if attracted by the high orc’s gravity, orienting themselves towards her callous grin, as if they had all forgotten the months since she had last called herself their chief, or the way they had all banded together to cast her out of their tribe.  Instead, she marched in as if her toothy gloat could erase all that, could return them back to the years when she had been their queen, their tyrant, their sister.

     It was Berala who spoke, looking up at Viola with a mocking sneer. “Well, now, ye mus’ be doin’ pretty good fer yerselves.  Lookit that faaancy chair, that gaudy little crown – yer a right bandit princess, ain’tcha?”  Her grin was a hungry wolf’s bared teeth. “Y’all mus’ be livin’ high on the hog ta afford a sparklehat like that.” 

     Glowering down at the high orc, manufacturing a condescending confidence as she stood, Viola reached up to adjust the crown that sat atop her head.  She doubted that Berala would recognize that it was cobbled together from loot from their old stash, and instead wore it like the symbol of her authority it was intended as – even if the rough edges and unsmoothed points did dig into her scalp. “We’re doing just fine, thanks for your concern,” Viola decreed snidely, tilting her chin upwards with defiant haughteur. “Though I get that a vagrant outcast like yourself would be envious.”

     Berala merely quirked a bushy white eyebrow, glancing around at the other orcs, at their gauntness, their shabby garments and filthy bodies.  Her roving gaze passed over the squalor of the cave, the piles of stinking scraps no one had bothered to carry outside to dump, the bones and rinds scattered across the floor.  Many of the orcs shifted uncomfortably as her gaze passed over them, as if ashamed of the marks of their lazy hygiene, their flaccid ambition.  Others met her gaze with their own recalcitrance, unashamed of their earlier coup.   

     One of these, ignoring her chieftain’s discussion with the high orc, stepped forward as if to challenge her former leader personally. “You’re not welcome here, Berala.  Turn tail, before we beat you again.” Her chin thrust forward like a leveled lance, her chest squared and biceps tense, the silver-haired Matilda strode to the fore.  If Berala’s grin was lupine, then Matilda’s sneering advance was a rooster’s swagger.  Beneath her short-cropped hair, Matilda’s eyes gleamed with bloodlust, the drunkenness of her boasting having nothing to do with the empty cups where she had been sitting.  

     “Oh?” The drawn-out question chilled the air, and most of the other orcs took a step back as Berala’s eyes fell upon the berserker with humorless wrath. “If’n I ‘member right, even after ye all dogpiled me, ye weren’ fit ta walk away.  How long did it take ye ‘fore ye could chew again after that?” Matilda’s grin didn’t waver, and the shiver that thrummed through her body was as much eagerness as fear. “Figures Viola can’t keep ye in check – I’ll have ta remind ye of yer place.” As she spoke, the high orc lowered her axe to the ground, and as she stood she brought her hands together, the cracking of her knuckles ringing through the cave like snapping ribs.

     “We all kicked you out,” Viola proclaimed, fighting to reclaim her role in this debate. “All the orcs here follow me now, Berala.” She ignored the expressions that flitted across the faces of her tribeswomen, the dubious glances that rose up towards her throne. “Unless you intend to kneel down to me and swear-” Berala’s barked laugh silenced Viola, and crimson heat blossomed in the self-proclaimed Bandit Queen’s cheeks when she noticed the high orc didn’t even bother to glance in her direction.  She convinced herself it was anger, not fear, that made her glance towards the pair of orcs guarding the base of the ramp that led up to her throne, but fortunately the towering Isabella and cringing Cora were still in place. 

     “Let’s face it, Berala,” another voice joined in the conversation below, sultry insinuation and teasing levity intertwined, “you had just a few jobs to do to stay in charge, and you failed at most of them.” The speaker stepped out of the crowd a distance from Matilda, tossing her lengthy black hair over her shoulder as she came. “At the least, if you had just managed to get us a man…”

     Berala scowled at Ophelia, who smiled back, unimpressed. “There’s more ta life than what’s ‘tween yer legs, Feely.” The high orc had never liked Ophelia much; most had agreed that the lustful orc was the prettiest of the tribe, with her long straight hair, smoldering dark eyes, and high cheekbones, but Berala preferred to remember how she had looked the last time she had seen her during their coup, bruised and swollen with split lips and a black eye.

     “Perhaps,” purred the buxom bandit, but the pleasure didn’t reach her eyes. “But, to me, the only person worthy of sitting on our throne is the one who can get me someone to sit on.”      

     Berala’s response was incoherent, a cough of disdain and spite, but she froze without continuing her rebuttal as yet another orc’s voice interjected.  At the sound of this final speaker, even the high orc locked in place, her eyes widening in shock and wonder.

     “If it’s a man you want,” proclaimed the newcomer as she marched into the cavern, face held high and smile broad and strong, “then I am the one you should be listening to.” The entire crowd gawped at the recent arrival, as flabbergasted as if the Demon Queen herself had strolled into their humble abode.  She was dressed like all of them, save that her leather straps and metal plates still gleamed with newness, and her body was plump with health and honed muscle.  She all but gleamed in the squalor of the hide-out, and the marvel on the faces of some of the orcish brigands was not merely surprise.  Priscilla strode into the orc’s base as if she belonged there – as if she hadn’t, too, been cast out, long before Berala.  The smile she shot up at Viola left the chieftain spluttering, and the casual way she dropped her weapons to the ground at her side advertised a confidence that none of her sisters had ever witnessed in their former second-in-command.  The effect was only slightly tarnished by the bruises she still wore from a recent brawl, including a darkness around one of her eyes.

     “You have to be kidding me,” Viola snarled, loud enough for all to hear. “Two exiles, thinking they can just march back in here and take over?” Her bitter laugh failed to intimidate either of her new challengers. “You both got kicked out for a reason.  You both lost.  We were sick of being the Blackaxe tribe, and I don’t think the- the Black Eye tribe would be any better!”

     Priscilla’s smile decayed into a frown at that, but her attention was taken by Berala’s snort of laughter.  She glanced over at the high orc, to find Berala grinning back at her. “What’re ye doin’ here anyways?” the taller woman demanded. “Thought I told ye ta steer clear of these parts?”

     “I decided I had a stake in how this all goes,” Priss told her former rival, her smile just as bright. “And I’m not the only one that came.” Those words landed like a punch, as Berala blinked in shock, her eyes darting to the shadows of the tunnel that led back towards the open plains, her grin decaying in a moment. 

     “Are ye mad?  Do ye know what they’ll-”

     “Let’s end this argument, here and now,” Priscilla demanded imperiously, batting aside the high orc’s frantic concern. “You say our sisters are done with us – doesn’t look to me that they are too happy with you, either.” This, at last, was aimed at Viola, and the chieftain’s spluttered fury only fueled Priss’s bold laughter.  Her eyes wandered the huddled groups of orcs, noting the discontent, the veiled glances at the throne above, the quiet whispers. 

     “Doesn’t mean we want you, either,” spat Matilda, her fists clenched.

     “‘Course not,” Priss conceded. “Only the strongest should rule.  And we don’t really know who that is, do we?” She chose not to notice the indignant glower Berala turned in her direction, or the few orcs who glanced towards the hulking, albeit meek, Isabella. “So let’s settle it.  A brawl.”  All of the orcs began to glance around, a sea of uncertain, warring emotions, but Priss’s pale arm rose to point towards Viola. “Whoever ends up wearing the crown at the end, when the fighting stops, is chief.  And if you don’t like the result, you leave.”

     The idea stole the breath from the crowd.  The only one to speak was Viola, who stammered out a litany of reasons why this idea was absurd, but dawning certainty was spreading on the faces of her tribe.  Even Berala stared at Priss, her gaze appraising, but never did Priscilla’s confidence waver.  She stood with arms crossed, her eyes locked onto Viola, daring her to try to sway the crowd in her favor.

     A ragged laugh was the beginning of the landslide. “You’re crazy,” Matilda spat, but her mouth was wide in a feral grin. “But gods, this will be fun.”

     A short distance away, Ophelia smirked, looking around at her sisters. “I could use the chance to blow off some steam,” she admitted, but she turned back to Priss a moment later. “And, if I win, you do have something I want…” Priss swallowed at the implication, fighting not to glance back towards the tunnel entrance, and nodded in accepted challenge.

     “Well, then,” Berala shrugged, walking closer to the crowd.  Her path brought her close to Matilda, who watched her come with maddened eagerness.  Rolling her shoulder to loosen the muscles of her brawny arm, the high orc nodded up at Viola, and then glanced around at the crowd of her former followers. “Let’s get it kicked off, eh?” She turned her broad grin towards Matilda, who sneered back – and the high orc lunged, her fist leading the way.  The punch staggered the brawler, but Matilda didn’t even pause to spit blood, instead launching herself at the other woman, raining her own barrage of punches.

     Orcs glanced at each other around the cavern, and, in mute, casual compliance – erupted into violence.

    In an instant, all was chaos.  The air was thick with cries and roars, the sounds of tables being shattered as friends or rivals slammed each other onto the furniture, or vice versa.  No one reached for an actual weapon, accepting the sacred rules of the contest, or perhaps just relishing the fun of decking the faces they saw each day.  Some rushed forward in tackles, or ambushed with kidney blows, or swung at whoever was closest.  It was clearly cathartic for the orcs, who spared no effort at beating their sisters into the ground, and the few that tried to hang back found themselves being dragged bodily into the fun.  Priss had dived into the melee, exchanging punches right and left, and Berala had picked up her opponent and was using Matilda as a bludgeon on the crowd even as the berserker kicked and punched at the high orc.  Ophelia wove and ducked, targeting sensitive spots with ruthless efficiency, and then with sudden naked rage as an elbow caught her on her refined nose.

      Only three of the orcs held back from the scrum.  Viola, atop the throne, waited for the crowd to batter themselves into oblivion, content to enjoy her handicap as the current owner of the main objective and a position far out of range.  She also enjoyed a second layer of security, as it seemed her orders to Cora and Isabella to guard her corridor overrode their desire to join in the brawl – or, more likely, neither of the soft-hearted duo really savored the idea of battering their kin.  With her guards in place, Viola felt assured of her victory, and settled inviolate into her throne, content to watch the spectacle as it progressed.

     She was so engrossed in the combat that she missed noticing the final arrival.  The figure that slipped into the cavern was leaner than most of the orcs, and, dressed mostly in black, blended into the shadows well enough to avoid notice.  Sparing only a moment to search for Priscilla amid the roiling mass of flailing combatants, he arced along the edge of the room around to the left.  He made it all of the way to the entrance of the path that curled up towards the throne before he was challenged, as the tallest of the orcs stepped into his path, massive club raising in warning.

     “Sorry,” Roger apologized, glancing between the two orcs in his path.  One was considerably shorter than him, a shy-looking, nervous girl with twinned pink pigtails, holding a kitchen knife outward in a quavering threat.  The other, however, was massive and blonde, with a conflicted, confused expression on her face.  That was the one who stepped closer, club at the ready. “But I need to get past you if I am going to win this.”

     The blond orc blinked in confusion, glancing between him and the fight happening in the middle of the floor. “I don’t know if… is that in the rules?” she asked slowly, glancing at her friend for confirmation.  The smaller orc seemed just as overwhelmed by his presence, glancing between him and her taller companion. “I mean, you’re a man, but maybe that’s okay.  And you will have to fight the boss, but- wait.  We can’t let you fight the boss.  We’re supposed to guard her.” Roger stood patiently as the orc looming over him puzzled through the minutiae of brawling etiquette.  As he waited, he drew a flask from his waist, popping the cork stopper free.  He raised the container to his lips, quaffing the shimmering orange contents in a single prolonged guzzle. “So we can’t let you go up.  But, wait- does that mean she is cheating?”

     The smaller orc, who was still watching the man curiously, nodded. “It kind of feels like we are letting her win.” Her eyes traced the man’s form as a blush spread across her cheeks. “But letting him sneak up there feels like cheating, too, right?”

     “Well, no, not technically, since he would still have to fight to get the crown,” the giant replied reasonably. “Just Viola, but still, it counts.” Content to let the debate occur, since a glance backwards proved no one else had noticed his presence just yet, Roger drew a different potion from his waistband, this one green, and began to drink it as well. “So, he could win fair, but we can’t let him, because we’re guards.” Content with this decision, the tall orc nodded to herself. “So, that means you have to leave.”

     “Or fight past you to get up to her?” Roger suggested, his voice oddly raw and rushed, as if he were holding himself back.  A third emptied flask was replaced at his belt, and the smaller orc blinked as she noticed the odd pulsing along his arms as his biceps bulged and released over and over, seeming to swell in size.  He even seemed to get slightly taller as he stood there, even his breaths sounding deeper and more ominous.

     “Well, no, I would hope not,” responded the muscular woman hesitantly. “Honestly, I don’t like to fight.” It was a hard confession for an orc, and the flash of sorrow on her face brought him a moment of pause. “So if you could just, you know…” She levelled her tree-trunk club at him and hesitantly thrust it in his direction, as if she meant to shoo away a mouse, instead of aiming to wallop him.

     She froze as he caught the club, which ended in a knot as thick as his torso, and stumbled forward when he yanked it from her grasp.  She stared at him for a long moment, glancing down at her own hands, and then at the single-handed way he held the colossal truncheon by its end.  She blinked as he casually tossed it to the side, deeper into the cavern, the sound of its clattering landing hardly noticed over the continuing din of the fracas, which had hardly died down despite several combatants laying unconscious on the ground.  And she studied his cold smile, and glanced over at her companion, who was staring at him with mouth agape and eyes wide as platters.

     “Maybe we should ask the boss for clarification,” the hulking orc suggested, and at her side the smallest orc nodded eagerly, hastily dropping the kitchen knife onto the floor.  Roger nodded amicably at the idea, and followed the pair as they turned to ascend the ramp leading up to the throne.

     In the middle of the cavern, the brawl was winding down.  Several orcs had once again dogpiled onto Berala, and she regularly tossed one aside only for another to slump back on top of her, wearing her down through the crush of bodies.  Matilda stood, erratically weaving, atop the ruins of a table Berala had smote her upon, still just as bloodthirsty as she was punchdrunk, and issued rogue swings at any orc that stumbled within range.  Priss and Ophelia dueled off to one side, but both staggered as they lunged at each other, more of their blows missing than finding their mark.  Another pair of orcs had isolated themselves from the start, apparently venting long-pent frustrations until now they slumped against each other in a faux-embrace, a living arch that occasionally half-mustered a soft swing.  Most of the orcs were on the floor in various levels of unconsciousness, battered and groaning, their objective long forgotten.

     The polite, though loud, interruption from the throne’s plateau was not the way any of them would have expected the brawl to end. “Excuse me,” bellowed Roger, looking down on the tableau of spent violence. “Can I have your attention?” The strangeness of the moment was enough to bring back to their senses some of the orcs, or at least those who had taken enough of a beating to fake a stupor.  Dozens of eyes, many of them nearly swollen shut, turned to look up at Roger as he stood at the edge of the platform.  Those that were able to squint enough in the dim light could see the gleam of metal in his hands, and that brought them to shocked stillness.  How had this man – who had not been here, when had he even arrived? – managed to get his hands on the crown?  The gazes flitted behind the man to find Viola still atop the throne, flanked by her meek guardians, the chieftain’s face twisted in a sour scowl as she waited for Roger to speak.  When all of the gazes returned to him, Roger nodded, and stepped right to the edge of the overhang.  He paused for a long moment, as if thinking about what he had rehearsed saying, and then pressed on.

     “So, the deal was, whoever wears the crown gets to be chief, right?  And I… well, I have the crown.” Instantly, a chorus of voices rose up, complaints and questions and slurred objections.  Roger lifted a hand to forestall the pedantic chorus, but the orcs didn’t seem inclined to listen just yet.  One belligerent voice rose above the rest.

      “So I just hafta take it from you, and then I’m chief!” Matilda stumbled off the table, moving  in the direction of the ramp with the staggering gait of a drunken sailor returning to land, as she jabbed a ruthless finger up in Roger’s direction.

     “Sure, I guess,” Roger admitted, looking more concerned for her health than worried about the threat she posed, “but hear me out, for just a moment.” The orcs seemed to resent that notion – punching was more fun than being lectured – but they relented to collectively agree to give him the moment he asked for, falling back into sullen silence.  Roger glanced over at Priss, who beamed an encouraging smile up at him, and he nodded in response, his heart swelling. “You see… I’ve heard your history, from the time you left your mothers’ tribe, to what has happened recently.  I know how it has gone under your last chiefs, and I think I can offer you something that they couldn’t.”

     “Oh, you most certainly can,” purred the orc with the long black hair, leering up at him as she licked her lips.  Roger blinked, put off his pace by the open implications of her words, and fought to continue, but she interrupted him before he could get his next word out. “I mean, that ‘something’ being your cock, of course.” This, again, left him verbally stumbling, and the orc stepped closer in his direction, her eyes not rising above his belt. “How big is it?  Hmm?”  Finally her eyes met his, in an expectant challenge, but this unorthodox interview left him reeling.  Reprieve came from the side, as Priss waved to get the other orc’s attention.  To Roger’s horror, he watched as his lover took her hands, and, with a contemplative stare and diligent measuring, created a gap of an intimately-familiar length and nodded to herself.  The black-haired orc stared at the open space with a hungry smile, glancing up at Priss for confirmation.  Satisfied by the grin on Priss’s face that the measurement was honest, the lustful warrior turned back in Roger’s direction with faux-military precision. “I’m listening,” she stated dutifully, and to Roger’s immediate chagrin he noticed that most of the other orcs were now just as attentive.

     “I meant,” Roger complained, his cheeks incandescent with shame, “that I could offer you something your chiefs had never bothered to… a choice.” He paused to let the words sink in, and at least a few of the orcs exchanged glances. “And, I guess, honesty.  I need something from you.” Again the black-haired orc began to interrupt, but he pressed on over her interjection. “The Orders are coming for my home.  They’re coming for all monsters, and the men that live with them.” He could hear the snorts and chuckles, the murmurs of bold overconfidence as battered orcs elbowed each other, but the seriousness of his voice smothered their bravado slightly. “They’ve brought an army, and we think they intend to move in.  To chase us further and further east, and to wipe out every group that tries to protect their homes.  New Haven has sent everyone they can spare to fight them, but they need help.”

     “They should have sent wagons of gold to hire us, then!” sneered one voice, and others joined in coarsely.

     “I’ve brought something better.” The orcs fell silent, listening to Roger. “Full pardons from the New Haven authorities, for everyone who helps.  Forgiveness for all banditry-” The orcs answered with booing, but Roger continued. “You’ll need the clean slate, if you want to move into the houses they offer along with the clemency.” The snide commentary was quieter now. “And you’ll need the house, for your mate, of course.  And so you’ll have a place to raise all your children.” Silence from the ground level. “It might be my house.  It might not.  That’s the choice I offer, you see.” Even Matilda paused in her stumbling trek, looking at him with suspicious confusion.  He smiled down at them, offering them a cold, confident stare that raked over the crowd. “Those who want to join Priss in my tribe can do that – not as subordinates, but as equals.  We have a big house, with room for lots of beds.  But if that’s not what you want, then take a house and mate of your own: first choice of the defeated Order troops to be your very own mate, to share only with the sisters you want to have as your own tribe.”  

     The guardedness that had marked the orcs since Roger had appeared at the edge of the throne’s platform began to fall away.  They turned and spoke to each other in quiet whispers, a sea of conflicting emotions and tentative evaluations.  One voice interrupted swiftly, however, to point out the obvious flaw in his plan. “Who is going to want one of those Order freaks?  They all stink, and none of them want sex.  They’re useless!” Matilda jeered up at Roger, her footing a bit more steady now.  The milling orcs glanced at her, then, exchanging nods or whispered agreements, looked back to Roger.

     “We have a solution for that.  I can’t explain the details, but a friend of mine says he has a way to fix that problem, a way to make their mana normal again.  He only told me that it would involve finding mates to help break their willpower-” The sudden burst of excited voices interrupted him once more, but Roger let this run its course, noting the sinister eagerness that many of the orcs openly displayed.  Priss had been right to encourage him to mention that detail, since it appealed to the orcs’ natural lust for dominance.  Even the quarrelsome, swaying orc in the back looked to be chuckling as she lost herself in the daydream his words had conjured.  More concerning were the orcs that weren’t consumed by the thought, instead staring at him still with ravenous eyes as hands wandered their own bodies.  He blushed as he noticed how intently some of them were still regarding his trousers.  One final interjection, though, brought everyone’s attention around.

     “You offer big promises, but what is keeping me from just taking you and everything you own by taking that crown?  I think I like that a lot better than being ‘equals.’” suggested the bellicose brawler, her bruised fists balled.  The other orcs regarded her, but now many of them seemed annoyed rather than contemplative.  Roger’s quiet sigh brought their gazes back to him, and they discovered he was holding the crown aloft.

     “You know, I worried that might be an issue,” Roger admitted.  He looked at the cobbled crown for a moment, and then shrugged. “And the deal was, whoever ends up wearing the crown gets to give the orders, so I guess you could do that.  I would rather not have to fight constantly to be in charge, so…”  He looked at it carefully, regarding his reflection in the dull golden gleam of the metal.  He smiled with casual acceptance.  

     Without a word, he placed both hands on either side of the metal ring – and his potion-fueled muscles bulged as he pressed inward, the crown screeching a fatal cry as it began to curl inward, transforming into a crescent.

     The orcs watched with wide eyes as he mangled the crown, folding it again, even though the brutish circlet was no dainty tiara.  The lines where the golden plates had been crudely welded gave way as he twisted, warping the metal until the points of the crown splayed in various directions.  And even then, he mashed inward, as behind him Viola choked in apoplectic shock and every eye in the cavern was focused on him.  Finally satisfied, he looked at the lump with an appraising stare, and then, offhandedly, chucked the golden squiggle off the ledge to land on the floor below with an uneven thud.  The orcs glanced at it lying there, and returned their gaze back to Roger, who offered the crowd a resigned smile.

     “If you want to be in charge that badly,” he surrendered, “then you can have the crown.  I’ll gladly follow whichever of you manages to straighten it back out and put it on.”

     The challenge hung in the air like a boast.  Silently, the orcs glanced among themselves, but as they did, their lips curled into a communal grin.  Roger watched as they turned back to him, beaming, hungry, eager, fascinated.  Ophelia dampened her lips with her tongue, her chest heaving.  Berala wore a huge toothy smile, all but clapping at his performance.  Priss beamed at him, arms folded across her chest, and he met her loving gaze with a nod.  Even the bloodthirsty Matilda nodded approvingly, letting her fists fall to her sides.  Roger turned back to look at Viola, who was still pale at the destruction of her crown – his hasty deliberation with her hadn’t included that improvised flourish – and found her staring at him with a sinister eagerness, flanked by her two guards, who were offering him unabashed smiles of their own.

     “Ye heard the man!” bellowed Berala. “’Ere’s some tinheads that need stompin’, and then we can get ta the good business!” The other orcs responded with a deafening cheer, and, despite the clearly visible bruises and black eyes from the brawl moments before, began making for their weapons and following in the wake of the marching high orc, who had reclaimed her massive axe from the floor.  For a moment, Roger worried again about the wisdom of sending the orcs off to battle immediately after this brawl, but Priss had earlier answered those concerns with a laugh, saying that orcs were naturally durable, and nothing could bring them back to their feet like the promise of another fight.  Indeed, even the incapacitated orcs were rising and shambling after their peers, regaining their composure with every step, and for the most battered there were curatives waiting – Roger had packed a satchel of healing potions and left it outside the cave with his lover’s armor.  Priss stayed back to make sure that they were all following, and then looked up to Roger with a proud smile.  His own expression carried just as much love as hers, and he watched as she turned to follow the other orcs, knowing that soon she would be taking back up her armor and weapons and marshalling the tribe into a fighting line as they marched towards the Orders’ flanks.

     A moment after Priscilla stepped beyond the mouth of the tunnel that led out towards the plains, Roger’s vision suddenly dimmed, and he lurched back from the edge as his head began to swim.  While he kept himself from plummeting from the edge, he still floundered onto his backside as a smothering wave of exhaustion crushed him to the floor.  He widened his swimming eyes, gripping the cold stone beneath it as if afraid he would fall off the ground, and groaned aloud.  It was because of the potions – his potions had been even stronger than he had hoped, but the backlash from taking so many at once was considerably worse than he had experienced before.  He had known the Bull’s Stamina potion, once it wore off, would leave him tired, and the Boar’s Strength would make him as feeble as an infant for a short while, but he hadn’t known that taking several of his mana-laden potions at once would hasten the feedback from them.  Even as he slumped back onto the stone, sprawled out and unable to rise, he was glad these crippling effects had waited until the orcs had departed before sending him to the floor, else his speech would have likely had a much less inspiring result.

     That gratitude was short-lived.

     As his vision dimmed, he noticed shadows drifting over his body.  He looked skyward, blearily, at the face of the orc’s former chieftain.  Viola smirked coldly down at him, and he realized, though his horror was as hollowed by exhaustion as anything else he felt, that she and her bodyguards hadn’t departed with the others.  He fought to open his mouth, to remind her of the swift pact they had forged when he had ascended the ramp – he had convinced her that there would always be a target on her back so long as she wore the crown, but that he could offer her a slightly better deal than even staying in charge – but the words crumbled before they could surmount his tongue.

     “Well, well,” Viola purred smoothly, squatting beside his supine head as the cave began to flood with midnight shadows, and even as her face descended he watched her features blur. “I may not be chief any more, but don’t dare think I’ll ever be far from the throne…”  He thought he felt her fingers brush his face, but he couldn’t be sure.  

     Roger couldn’t be sure of anything anymore, as he fell into a sleep like death.                          

 

******

 

     The polite knock at the ornate bedroom door was answered with a soft summons. “Come in,” answered Mephis’s voice, sweet and rich, if a tad rushed.  When the portal swung open to reveal the familiar form of John Foster, he offered an apologetic smile in the direction of the massive, plush bed she sat upon, lowering his head in mute chagrin as he approached.  The lilim didn’t rise from her comfortable seat, surrounded by a collection of tomes likely brought with her when she travelled from her mother’s castle, and instead watched him come with an unfamiliar hint of trepidation.  For a moment, the brash warlock found his tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth as he unconsciously straightened the lower hem of his shirt, suddenly afraid their argument the previous night had left deeper marks on Mephis’s heart than he had expected, but when she merely stared at him he forced words to his lips.

     “I wanted to let you know that our forces should have arrived at the area they’ve chosen as a battlefield,” he announced, with more formality than he had intended, “and that we ended up with fewer than we had hoped for, but at the least many of those who went are experienced in combat.  Ceann worked until morning gathering volunteers, and is working now on getting everyone remaining in town ready in case the worst happens.” He read her face, noting the grave way she nodded at the news.

     “Do you think they will be okay?” she asked directly, her concern obvious and unreserved.

     He nodded, slowly, surprised internally at how openly she had changed her perspective since their argument the previous night.  She had been boldly certain of their plan when he had been held at Ceann’s blade’s edge, but now she was anxious and glanced towards the western windows of her chamber with naked apprehension.  It had been her confidence that had helped to allay his own fears, but now he felt driven to reassure her. “They’ll be outnumbered, but with Lacy in command and with as many veterans as we’ve mustered, they’ll have a fighting shot, even with the magicked medallions the Orders have.  If Roger’s plan pays off, we’ll have reinforcements, if they can make it in time.” He held his tongue about his main concern, the Orders’ contingent of magic-users; the only arcane-capable volunteers they had managed to find for their own forces had been Simon and Sarah, and while Mephis was the next most logical addition, he had no intention of letting the Demon Queen’s daughter anywhere near this battle.

     Mephis didn’t reply, still staring out through the window with concern written plainly on her statue-perfect face.  In the silence that followed, John shifted uncomfortably, but his inquisitive gaze fell on the books that surrounded the lilim.  His eyes narrowed as he scanned over the titles of several magical primers he recognized, mostly from the tower’s collection instead of Mephis’s own trove. “Are you getting ready for Mary’s lessons?” he asked, noting the specific tomes she had chosen with a tingle of quiet suspicion.

     “What?  Oh, yes, Miss- Mary and I will be studying together once things settle down,” Mephis agreed, with a slight smile reclaiming her lips.  She didn’t glance up as John stepped closer to the bed, missing the way his eyes narrowed.  After a moment, she looked up at him and nodded. “Hopefully things quiet down soon and go back to normal, once everyone returns.”

     She didn’t notice the edge to his smile, the way he casually smoothed a wrinkle in the blankets covering the mattress.  He nodded to one of the books in particular. “Illusion magic – the instinctual purview of succubi.  Even lesser succubi like Mary can find it comes naturally, especially casting spells that cause the viewer to behold what they expect to see, or what they wish to see.” Mephis froze in place, before turning a sweet smile in his direction, albeit not quite meeting his eyes. John nodded once more, before sighing and turning to walk back the way he had entered the room. “Perhaps, though, if that is going to be her focus, there are other books I could bring out for her as well: old manuals for thespians and other actors, materials to help her get into character more easily.” His faint grin was hidden as he turned his back to her, reaching to open the door to the stairs once more.

     “I- I’m sure she would appreciate that,” Mephis replied, the color in her cheeks rising once more. “Though I think, right now, she would prefer good news about how the battle is going.”

     John paused, and turned once more to face her.  There was something about his face that was paradoxical: at once, mature and knowing, a calming expression that left the woman on the bed feeling reassured, while at the same time possessing the youthful spark of energy that still twinkled in the group portrait he kept in his chambers, a reminder of the hero he had once been. “I don’t have that good news for her,” John said resolutely, “but I know that Simon would tell her to have faith.  And that her father would tell her that he’s even tougher than he looks.” The roguish edge to his grin was infectious, bringing even a gentle smile to the lilim’s lips, and she nodded her gratitude to him.  A moment later, and the door closed behind him once more, leaving her to her studies.

     On the other side of the door, John’s eyes narrowed as his smile faded away.  They could only hope that things went well, that those they loved came back safe and sound.  If they didn’t, and things went poorly, he would have to see the people of New Haven towards succor in the east.  But then, if New Haven’s defenders – including those who had snuck away to join them – had indeed fallen, then the Orders would find much worse waited them here.  John’s eyes blazed as he walked down the stairs, and deep inside of him an arcane lock trembled with the weight of his intensity.  If the Orders made it here expecting conquest, they would find hell, even though it would be the last thing John Foster did.

 

******

 

     The sky spread wide over the fields to the west of New Haven.  The spine of the mountains ahead rolled in browns and greys, but above and to the east, the waves of gentle hills left the heavens room to yawn out wide, so that even the clouds looked stretched into listless drifts.  The sun was high and hot against the deep-blue autumn sky, and the intermittent patches of scrub trees offered no meaningful shade, but the chill in the breeze conspired to temper the sun’s efforts to acceptability.  All in all, it was a beautiful day for almost anything – even a battle.

     Lacerta Steelscale stared at the line of soldiers across the field, backed in the distance by another of the sloping foothills that led towards the higher peaks beyond.  Her eyes narrowed at the unpleasant gleam of them, all white and silver in the sunlight, a shimmering glare that was a weapon of its own.  Her practiced gaze had already taken the measure of that line more than once, despite the metallic brightness, and she knew their formation was a wall that would be difficult to break.  She just hoped the forces she had helped to scrape together would be enough of a hammer to do it.

     Just as George Lambton had described the previous evening, the Order forces tended towards the defensive.  Half of the line were heavily armored, and bore large shields in front of them: tower shields and spears towards the center and lighter kite shields and swords on either side.  Beyond them, more spears and round shields, though these soldiers were more lightly armored and mobile.  At the edges were the skirmishers, who had bucklers if they had shields at all, while most carried dual weapons or two-handed ones.  Lacy didn’t need to see the tabards those men wore to recognize them as Purifiers.  They would be the ones to collapse in on New Haven’s smaller force, which meant the others were leaving the killing work to the monster slayers while Guardians and Crusaders took the brunt of the charge.  She could make out a hulking form marching back and forth behind their line, and presumed that to be their commander, but he wasn’t the gravest threat they faced.

     That, instead, would be the force atop the hill behind their southern flank.  The terrain was rougher in that direction, and though the rise the men stood upon was not particularly high, it would be enough to slow anyone charging it on foot.  And, at the flattened peak, twenty men clutching staves stood mumbling prayers or gesticulating as they glared hatred across the gulf at the monsters.  The one at their fore with a fringe of red hair looked particularly wrathful, although it could instead have been redness from the sun; Lacy couldn’t be sure.  The Inquisitors would act as magical artillery, and the monsters had little to respond in kind with.

     Lacy let her gaze track to the gentle slope behind her own forces.  Up that embankment, like a grassy wave on a windy sea, stood only three figures, a sad match for the twenty opposite them.  This close, she could make out the lightly-garbed lich, Sarah’s brief robe’s cowl pulled far forward to shadow her pale face, and beside her the form of Simon, dressed no differently than usual as well, though he had his zigzagged staff leaning back against his shoulder as he lowered his head to read from a small book.  The third person atop the hill gave Lacy a different sort of anxiety than the Inquisitors did, but left her tail twitching nonetheless: though she wore a baggier, more concealing garment than usual, the white wide-brimmed hat gave away the identity of their final magician.  The lizardwoman hoped any of them at all would survive this battle, but she especially didn’t want to be the one to break the news that one of the lilim had fallen, neither to John or to the Demon Queen.  She wasn’t sure which of those options would be worse.  Her only consolation was the person who stood partway down the slope, ready to intercept any who made it past New Haven’s lines: Ceann Alpestria, her flaming sword glowing more brightly than the day’s light, especially against the darkness of her armor.

     Her next appraisal fell on her own soldiers.  Most monsterkind, aside from abnormally disciplined forces like those of Lescatie, tended to fight best on their own, instead of in the regimented lines the Orders preferred.  That was especially true of the motley irregulars that she had brought to the field: the portion of her lizardwoman mercenaries that she had brought would serve as a core, but the others were a mix of martial artists, smiths or miners from Goslar, barroom brawlers, or ex-mercenaries, and some were just hapless citizens who she hadn’t manage to dissuade from coming.  Even with the physical advantages that monsters held over humans, she didn’t feel the best about their odds – despite the stoic expression she maintained.   

     She could see that her third-in-command, Taka Kuroiwa, had her own soldiers ready for battle.  While Lacy missed having Maggie at her side, she had chosen her to instead lead the rearguard for New Haven’s retreat east, if the worst happened here.  Taka was a decidedly capable lieutenant, however, whose strictness was well-known among their band – except when it came to her little sister, on whom she tried to dote, and whose behalf Taka would be motivated to give her best today.  Most of the lizardwomen wore calm, controlled expressions, even the newest recruits, though Lacy found herself searching for one face in particular.  Teira Rockgrip had been slow in the march to the field, and that worried Lacy for no reason she could name just yet.

     Aside from the Company of the Forked Blade, the other defenders of New Haven fanned out in a wide arc, especially the few at their center.  While that meant they would have to wait for the lizardwomen to arrive to reinforce them, it made sense to give these fighters a wide berth, particularly the trio of ogres, Kana and her red and blue cousins, both of whom sported daunting studded iron clubs and ravenously-lustful expressions.  These, and a few others, would be their linebreakers, charged with opening up a path to the Orders’ commanders and shattering their formation.  The irregulars on the flanks, especially the southern one, would keep the infantry away from the spellcasters on the incline and slow the inevitable pincer movement of the opposing battleline, and Lacy had deployed their most mobile troops in those directions, like the martial artists, while the few centaurs who had joined them lingered in the rear to see where they would be needed the most – too tempting of a target for the Inquisitors, until Simon and the others had them tied down. ‘For as long as they can,’ winced the mercenary captain, hiding her face by glancing back to the fore.

     Lacy sighed inaudibly, and quickly finished reviewing her forces.  They were significantly outnumbered by the knights, and had far less martial experience, with a few exceptions.  The old mercenary Charles Kramer stood near the ogres, dressed in ill-fitting chain and with a buckler and an intimidating cudgel, looking as undaunted as he did hefting kegs back in his tavern.  On his other side, though, was Stu Stonecleft; as similar as the two men were in form, Stu hadn’t fought a battle in his life, and the hammer he carried was meant for breaking rocks rather than shields.  Lacy had stumbled upon the argument between Stu and his wife over which of them would get to go to the battle, and Stu hadn’t played soft, letting Tara know their daughter would need her more if something happened to one of them.  The former mayor had forced Lacy to swear that she would bring her husband back in one piece, and Lacy had promised, but she knew just how flimsy that word was.  The truth was, they all had families or friends to go back to, and everyone who didn’t make it home would be a tragedy – but at the same time, it would be a miracle if any of them did. 

     Roger drifted to her mind, and she schooled a frown away from her lips.  They hadn’t yet had a single day of peaceful life together as lovers.  But now she had to focus.  

     Another sight drew an honest groan from the seasoned captain’s lips, and Lacy let herself begin to walk towards one of the linebreakers with a sharp scowl.  She had wondered why she hadn’t seen Teira in formation, and now she realized why: the girl had placed herself among the heaviest part of their column, far to the side of the oni sisters.  As Lacy neared the misplaced mercenary, Teira saw her coming, frantically hiding something behind her back. “That had better not be what I think it is,” Lacy growled venomously at her subordinate, who offered her a brilliant smile, still shielding her burden with her body.   

     “Commander!  It’s such an honor for you to speak to me personally.  And let me be the first to congratulate you on what happened the other day back at the sparring grounds-” Lacy’s glare was enough to strangle the poorly-advised comment, and the feeble laugh that emerged instead only made the red-haired lizardwoman’s eyes narrow to fatal edges. Teira shifted uncomfortably like a guilty child hiding evidential cookie crumbs.  “Well, see, the thing is, you told me to focus on standard-issue weapons, since unorthodox ones only have limited uses, but this is definitely one of those times, right?  The Order guys have protective magic and everything!  And why have a weapon like this if you never get to use it-?”

     “You did not,” Lacy’s words were granite, but she was ready to be disappointed, “carry that oversized ball and chain all the way out here.”

     Teira’s expression was simultaneously pleading and anxious. “Mister Smacky would have been sad if I passed up the one time I could actually use him.” And she pulled from behind her the implement in question, the spike-studded ball nearly as big as a melon, the dense chain rattling in consenting supplication.

     “You will be sad when I shove that-!”

     “Commander, they are sending men forward.  I think they mean to parley.” Taka’s crisp voice rang out, interrupting Lacy as she loomed over the problematic private.  

     Lacy’s words seized in her throat, and so she settled for glaring murder at Teira.  Jabbing a menacing finger at the mercenary and her weapon, Lacy turned to head towards her dark-haired lieutenant, reaching down to take hold of one of the hilts of her swords. “If you get yourself killed,” Lacy finally spat back as she marched towards the dead space between the armies, “I am telling your mother and aunts just how you did it!”  Behind her, unheeded, Teira grinned and snapped a salute, nearly dropping the cumbersome ball in the process.

     Lacy intercepted Taka on her way towards neutral ground.  The Eastern lizardwoman was flanked by two of their sergeants, and a glance across the field showed they were a match for the delegation from the Orders, two men in ornate armor along with subordinates holding aloft matching banners.  “All of that glitter makes me feel like the poor girl at the dance,” quipped Lacy, and her subordinates made her proud by stifling their chuckles.  Still, forced levity aside, her muscles tensed as Lacy’s eyes fell on the brute at the head of the quartet.  He was massive, and the armor he wore looked purely superfluous to his bulk.  Lacy wasn’t sure who she could confidently put in a match against someone like that, but from the expression he wore as he stared at her, she expected she knew well who he would choose in return.  His hand didn’t stray far from the head of the warhammer at his side, and the broad rim of a round shield peeked over his shoulders – he would not be a fun opponent, she knew instinctively.

     Beside him strode a slim, tall man with cropped hair blonde enough to almost shine silver.  The lengthy handle of a zweihander rode above his shoulder, and his face was hard and blunt enough to match the blade.  Unlike the formal tabard of the other leader, this man wore the flame-and-sword of a Purifier.  This made Lacy’s eyes tighten; George had said there were two Lords with this army, and she hadn’t spotted the second one yet.  She assumed he would be with the other spellcasters on the hill, but she had learned not to take such things for granted.

    The walking mountain of a man stopped a good distance from her, and immediately his honor guard and compatriot followed suit.  Lacy paused as well, leaving her and her subordinates well outside the range of even the Purifier’s blade, and for a moment both sides stared coldly at each other over this final impassable gulf of open field. “Quite a few of you out for a stroll today,” the brute across from Lacy boomed, his voice as decisive and cruel as a hill caving in on a rabbit’s den. “Hadn’t expected to see so many of your kind out in the honest daylight.” Within the wild rust-colored scruff of his beard, the man’s smile was twisted with ravenous eagerness, but even that didn’t reach his cold eyes.

     “And speaking of that, you and your men aren’t exactly dressed for a hike.  All of that armor must chafe your soft bits,” Lacy rejoined.  The Lord’s grin spread, but the Purifier’s cheeks darkened in fury.

     “Speak not of our sacred bodies, wretch,” spat the lanky knight, his face tight with rage. “We are not meant to slake your unholy lusts.”

     Rolling her eyes, Lacy shook her head. “Thank goodness for that,” she mumbled, hearing Taka’s quiet cough of suppressed humor. “Something tells me that sword is meant to compensate.”

     “Don’t worry on our behalf,” purred the Guardian Lord, like a millstone turning on gravel. “We are on a mission of mercy, a simple patrol of the lands of our Empire; we’ve been sent to spread the newest proclamation of protection for all the humans who dwell in these desolate reaches.”

     Lacy’s eyebrow rose sharply. “I think you missed the border days ago,” she pointed out, nodding at the mountains behind him. “No humans have lived in this land for-”

     “You misunderstand,” the bald brute interrupted, raising a hand casually towards the Purifier.  Nodding, his subordinate pulled a rolled parchment from his belt, and unfurled it to read loudly enough that his words likely reached the ranks of both sides.

     “Let it be known,” enunciated the bladesman, leering triumphantly, “our benevolent Empire, desiring peace, unity, and prosperity for all mankind, has declared under its protection all lands west of the Sacred Veil, bestowed upon us by one of the Seven as a shield against the perfidy of monsters.  All human dwellers of these lands are granted the rights and responsibilities of a citizen of the Empire.  For their immediate protection, all monsters, beasts, and hellspawn, or their tainted accomplices, are to be cast out as trespassers and violators, by blade or flame, without delay.” He paused as he finished, drinking in the reactions of the lizardwomen like a gloating executioner, before rolling and capping the parchment once more.

     Lacy looked between the two men, restraining her horror behind a bulwark of incredulity. “Are you seriously declaring open war on every monster west of the Veil?” she demanded.  While Goslar had been at the fringes of the Empire’s territory thanks to being somewhat close to the Barrier City Vindobona, and thus in a state of liminal acceptance until the Orders had seized the town, there were many other such towns well to the north and south that were havens for monsters and men who lived with them.  The proclamation the man had just delivered was, in essence, a claim over the rest of the continent up to the border between monster-held lands and their own.   

     “Not exactly,” disagreed the behemoth in platemail, casually buffing a long scratch in the back of one of his gauntlets.  He favored Lacy with a predator’s smile. “Wars are for nations.  This is more of a…” He paused, circling his hand as if searching for the word.

     “Extermination,” growled the Purifier-Captain helpfully.

    “That’s it.” The commander shook one finger skyward, nodding appreciatively to his lieutenant before turning back to Lacy. “So, with that in mind, consider this an, ah, invitation.  To run.”  He took a step closer, leaning towards the shorter lizardwoman, and Lacy restrained the urge to let her hands grip the hilts of her swords. “Run fast and run far, and don’t stop to pick up anything or anyone.” His smile didn’t slip as he straightened, and it seemed to chill the midday sun. “The Orders have come to cleanse these lands, and we will gladly start with you.”  With a faux-polite nod, he turned on his heels and strode back towards his lines, followed by his banner-bearers.  The Purifier-Captain hesitated just long enough to sneer hatred at the lizardwomen before following in their wake.

     Taka glanced at Lacy more than once on the way back to their own lines, but the commander of New Haven’s forces said nothing.  Her mind wanted to race with consequence and logistics, necessary tasks for the days ahead, but she held the reins through sheer force of will.  All of that could, must, wait until after this battle.  She could spare no thoughts of anyone else now, though for the briefest moment she worried for Roger, already behind these Order lines.  At least with Priss watching over him, she could focus her attention on the fight ahead.

     When she reached their forces, she paused, glancing over her troops once more. They all watched her in turn, tense and ready, or so she hoped.  Even the veterans looked wary, and she knew that they would see the enemy lines behind her, gleaming and broad as an ocean wave.  She hadn’t volleyed words at the Order commander, saving them instead for this moment, because she knew this was the place for her, the time her thoughts might count.  She had spent half the day trying to think of how to inspire her troops, and had failed to come up with anything coherent – she preferred to lead through deeds, despite wishing she was better with inspirational speeches.  Disciplining herself, she nodded, looking over her line, meeting each gaze in turn, as she let the simple truth roll out of her.

     “They’re coming for New Haven,” she explained. “They’re coming for all of us.  But that is nothing new.  They always have.” She scoffed, shaking her head. “That’s the problem; it’s easy to be tired, afraid, because this keeps happening.  Goslar.  Avalon.  Iberia.  Nation after nation, land after land – why would today be different?”  She paused for effect, scanning over faces.  Some were neutral, but others betrayed the anger beneath.  Stu’s face was dark and stormy.  Charles’s hand gripped his cudgel tightly.  Women once of Goslar muttered amongst themselves. “There is no reason this fight has to matter.  Hells, how could it even be remembered?  Battles are named after the famous places where they happen, and this…” She trailed off, motioning to the fields behind her, lands without a name. “So why will today matter?”

     Their faces spoke for them.  Quiet, desperate faces.  Frustrated, angry faces.  Eager, confident faces.  A thousand reasons why.

     “Today matters because we stand here.”

     With a flourish, Lacy drew one of her swords.  She let it catch the sunlight, the gleam passing over her troops like a blessing.  And then, delicately, as if in ritual, she lowered the point to the ground.  She let that sharp tip turn the earth, a sword turned plowshare turned symbol, drawing a simple furrow in the ground before her.

     “Today matters because we fight.  Today matters because we know there is no border we can hide behind, no wall or mountain, that they won’t chase us past.  And so, if they are going to stop coming after us, then we have to stop them.  Here.  Today.  They will only stop taking when we make them, and we will make them because…” Her chest heaved. “Because what do we have left for them to take, but the ones we love?”

     The gleam she saw in her lines wasn’t off of steel.  The metal she found there wasn’t weapons or armor.  It was in their gazes, their intensity.

     “This is the line.” Lacy’s finger jabbed down, indicating the scratch in the earth she had just made. “This is the final border they cannot cross.  This is the line we push off of, to push them back.  To start taking back.  To protect our homes and lives, they cannot cross this.  We cannot let them.” The eyes she met blazed with determination. “And if you fall… you’re just going to have to get back up.  Because this won’t be the end.  It isn’t even the beginning.  But today matters, because this is where history turns on its heel.” 

     She paused – and they began to step forward, with no command given.  They were ready.   She watched, proud, meeting gaze after gaze as they came, stepping past her, taking their places closer to the Orders’ shining bulwark.  They didn’t stop until all of them, save the spellcasters on the ridge, stood well beyond her line, weapons and shields at the ready, facing the knights across the field with resolution as rigid as that shieldwall.

     The Orders saw them come.  Lacy could see the bald pate of the commander over their lines, heard his shout – but the answer of the full force was even louder yet. “No gods!” they bellowed as one, their shields ringing together with each line. “No monsters!  No heroes!” The sunlight glaring at them could not explain the pale luminescence in their eyes. “Only man!”

     “Stupid fucking battlecry,” muttered Kana, the ogre’s words loud enough for Lacy to hear despite the distance between them, and several on their side snorted.  The oni sisters added their own crass opinion, ringing over the field for the benefit of the other side.  Other calls joined in, disparate but united in defiance.

     “Forces of New Haven!” Lacy called, raising her blade above her head.  They tensed, consumed by the final fatal moment of potential. “Forward!”

     And they advanced, slowly building speed like an avalanche, choosing their targets and readying themselves for the dreadful collision of combat.  Brilliant lights bloomed overhead like thunder as spells detonated against each other, blue and gold roiling the air.  The ground beneath seemed to quake in sympathy as they drew closer and closer, until, with an eruption of shouts and battering metal and pained cries, the two armies – opposite and uncompromising – finally met.

     The Battle of the Line had begun.

 

Continued in “Heroes, Chapter 17”

---

Author’s Note: The dreaded convention curse strikes once more.  I wish that event was entirely to blame for the delay, but the truth is that life has been… hectic.  Being perfectly honest, I would normally charge in assuming that this chapter was the start of me resuming my usual posting every-other-week, but I can’t promise that, considering all that is on my plate: my father is in hospice, I have a yearbook and a half to complete, I have been serving as unofficial counselor for students and colleagues alike, and I have a dilapidated house to put back in order as quickly as I can.  Life has been kicking me, well, everywhere it can reach, and I offer more apologies than promises to those of you who have been waiting.  

     Adding to my concern for the next chapter is the fact that it is going to be, ah, large.  The battle itself promises to be action-packed, and the next chapter will cover more than half of it.  I only hope I portray the chaos half as well as I have planned it, because I have been looking forward to this since I began this particular tale.  Quite a few of my characters will get their moments to shine, so, perhaps unfairly, I hope you look forward to it… and I will keep plugging away, because writing is as much release from the chaos as it is effort.

     As for this chapter, I hope it was to your liking.  It is an answered promise, of sorts, from all the way back in Not Alone.  The orcs I introduced in “Hogtied” get more characterization here, and they will have more of a role to play ahead.  Again, several of them are based off of a particular artwork, so I offer gratitude to Butter-T once more for that picture.  

     Speaking of gratitude: thank you, my reader.  Thank you, to those who have waited.  Thank you to those who find me now, or later.   I pray to prove this long story worth the effort in reading, and in particular the wait… we are almost there.

     For this story, anyways.  Many more wait beyond.  But that is a discussion for another day, as now, I desperately need… sleep…   

     ~Wynn Pendragon

386 Views