Orren's Eight
Orren watched the tree sentinel move slowly along the edge of the forest. Tall and lanky, with no discernible features, it lumbered along at a careful, steady pace, making the sound of an old branch creaking in a constant wind. It gave no sign it noticed him, though he knew that would change should he approach the sacred trees. They could be violent, but unprovoked the sentinels did nothing but wander. The Drasul respected the northwood, the wild and untamed tangle that covered a vast expanse of their planet, Orren had learned from a young age to let it and its guardians be. The invasion had pushed them farther north, closer to its boundaries than they preferred. Even so, the ancient protectors of the wood were becoming increasingly rare to spot. Orren glanced up. It was clear and he could see a smattering of stars, as well as the far distant black spot that marked the whirling blackness of the void. There was no dancing glow of orange and red across the horizon, no choking clouds of smog. They were not burning tonight. Perhaps they would not burn after tomorrow. He doubted it. Orren waited until the sentinel had dragged the body completely into the shadowy embrace of its trees and then stood. He’d been sitting on the edge of a field on a flat stone, enjoying the full silence of the night while he waited for the sentinel to do its work. Despite the slight burning on his arm where he’d been cut in the earlier skirmish, it had been peaceful. Orren supposed it would be the last peace he would feel for a very long time. He let it go as easily as the sentinel had slipped into the darkness. It was time he met his men.
The field grass was long and colored a late autumn yellow gold. Orren moved through it purposefully, weaving between the jagged outcroppings of rock that scarred the ground. At his side stretched a great ruined wall, built by those that came before in a time past remembering, it was of a stonework not practiced by the Drasul. Ruins of this type were commonplace throughout Dran, becoming more frequent in the plains that wrapped around the planet in a band before the northwood. Orren had never much cared for the features of the north. He was not alone, the clans of his people preferring to fight over the more forgiving riverlands to the south than forage into the rocky soil of the plains. But the invasion had rooted them out, like rats out of a cellar, sent scrambling into the difficult terrain where they could try to outwit death. So far they had failed. Orren approached an ancient arch, the crest long since crumbling away into nothing, the remaining pieces made of weathered stone on which faint carvings could still be seen. The night air was crisp and carried a faint scent of earth and decay. Passing beneath what once was the gate to a grand structure, Orren came into a courtyard overgrown with brown weeds. There was no fire, no chatter. The silent forms waiting for him turned as he entered, eyes alighting in placid appraisal.
They had given him seven warriors, each baron personally selecting his best. While only six figures waited for him, he knew he would be the last to arrive. The silence in the aged courtyard persisted as Orren looked over his men, and they looked over him. The Drasul are large and ogrelike, with thick limbs and rugged faces. Their most characteristic feature is their horns, which curve down in a sickle on either side of their head. Most Drasul like to carve runes into them, and warriors put in a crooked notch for every battle victory. The warriors waiting in that grim circle had many notches. Orren recognized a few faces, but only one brought a thin smile to his face — the chipped horns and bone necklace of his old friend Fangain Ironforge. They had fought side by side in the past, Clan Ironforge and Clan Stormhorn maintaining the longest-standing peace among the eight Drasul clans. Fangain gave him a nod and Orren spoke.
“You all know why you are here. You recognize me as Orren Stormhorn, as I recognize some of you, by name and reputation. But you do not know me any more than I know you. We wait for one more. While we wait we share, so the waiting is not what occupies the mind, and we do not go into battle without knowing.”
There was some nodding and grunting. Orren had meant to continue speaking, as was natural of a commander. However his pause in speech allowed Fangain to strike, and his friend spoke with the calm voice of advanced age.
“I am Fangain Ironforge. It is my expectation that I am the oldest among you, and by a fair margin. I will keep my own story brief. The Ironforge felt the invader’s wrath first, as it is well known that they landed the first of their beasts on our rippled land. We met the demons fiercely but were pushed out of our homes. I lost many of my kin. We were joined by our Stormhorn allies in the first and only offensive any of the great clans has mounted since the invasion began. It was asked for others to join us, as we expected the scourge to soon spread to the others. No other clan answered this call and we were beaten.”
Orren noticed a few of the others bristling at Fangain’s words, though no one dared challenge the truth of what he spoke. No one had joined them in their single strike against the metal clad demons. They had lost. And now the scourge had spread to each clan in turn, until they were all equals in their suffering, equals in their loss.
“I have been fighting this enemy longer than any of you,” Fangain continued. “I have gone from an overconfident fool to a humbled veteran. I was told tomorrow is the last time I will have to fight them, for good o r for ill. I look forward to winning one.” He turned to Orren. “Orren is a good leader. I have fought with him and he is my brother.”
It was a simple, direct endorsement. Orren felt it was effective. Fangain held seniority that came with age and experience. There were no direct responses to his friend’s brief exposition, instead the mountain next to him stepped forward.
“I am Grimtok Stonewatch.” Grimtok was one of the few warriors Orren recognized. The Stonewatch were the northernmost clan, as the Ironforge moved along the southern borders of all the clan’s land, so did the Stonewatch move across the north. He was by far the largest there, towering a full head above Fangain, who was above average in his own right. His horns were equally massive, spiraling nearly three times around themselves as they framed his face. A hard silhouette to miss across the battlefield. “The farthest from Fangain’s ore covered homelands, we were the last to join this struggle. It is not with pride that I saw as much, and I offer no excuse beyond the ease of indifference that comes with knowledge of events happening far away.” Grimtok’s voice surprised Orren. It had a deep smoothness, one of a practiced orator. “We have yet suffered the most recent loss. Our stronghold at Bentwater was our last vestige of hope toward retaining some presence in the land of our forefathers. With its destruction we have come to understand the homeless wanderings of our brother clans. Our full support is behind the alliance as it stands and will stand tomorrow. I am here as a sign of that faith, and the blood we are ready to spill to prove our right to this land.”
Orren gave the large warrior a nod. He could have interjected with the words he had prepared, but instead felt the organic nature of the introductions and let them proceed. The next to share were a pair. Stouter, their horns had holes bored through the ends on which dangled charms made from metal and bone. They shared many features, enough where Orren could guess they were the famous twins, despite never having met them.
“Now that we have dealt with the two extremes…” The one on the left started.
“We can deal with those who find ourselves in the middle.” The one on the right finished.
They talked like that, as a cooperative effort, each one helping the other get a point across. Orren found it somewhat disconcerting at first, though he got used to it quickly. The information was the same.
“I am Briarmind of the Bloodscars. I am Thornheart of the Shadowfangs. It was to our lands the invaders came after the Ironforge. We fought them as valiantly as any and were beaten slower than some. But beaten we were. We found ourselves caught between the invaders and the borders of those now claiming to be our brothers. Our clans are no strangers to fighting with our backs against the wall. We were often the ones whose land was expanded into, or whose crops were torched, or whose warriors were blamed when the clans found themselves at war. And this time was no different. Only once our people were slaughtered, our homes razed to the ground, our blood spilled out onto frozen earth, only then were we allowed to retreat into other lands.”
Orren was not surprised at the bitterness behind the twin’s narrative. Born in two different clans, they were nonetheless kin, and had risen to such prominence independently as to unite their clans in a new truce. However, the Bloodscars and the Shadowfangs were the two smallest clans, and historically the ones most often put into the toughest positions.
“But we are not fools. We are here because we, unlike our brothers,” Briarmind spat the word. “Understand the need for survival.”
“And once we survive, we intend to take our due.” Thornheart finished.
“Spoiled brats.” Fangain muttered not quite quietly enough. Orren expected further arguing, but the twins cast his belligerent friend a pitiful look of disdain, and backed off, allowing for the next to take a step forward.
“We are allies here. Out of necessity or not, we are.” This warriors’ voice rasped, with an uncanny tone that caused Orren to wonder if he made the statement sardonically. He was the only one Orren neither knew nor had a clue to his identity. His face was married by tiny jagged scars that curved this way and that, pale white lines standing in stark contrast to a mat of black hair. His horns were smaller, unmarred, and on his back was strung a massive bow, a weapon most uncommon among all Drasul.
“I am Razorgaze Whisperwind.” Orren noticed the twins exchange glances. The Whisperwinds were the clan they had not so subtly hinted at, who had not allowed refugees from the twin’s clans to flee into their lands until it was much too late. They were also the most outcast of all the people of Dran. There was infighting between all. Even the Ironforge and Stormhorns had conflicts before the peace. The Whisperwinds were the most… uninvolved. They never raided, never traded, and rarely entered into the petty squabbles that characterized much of inter clan interactions. As such, if anyone were not to be represented, Orren had expected it to be them. And yet here was Razorgaze.
“We met the invaders on the field as they moved into our rolling heartland. We have since been pushed into the embrace of the north. We acknowledge the greater need of our fair planet. Dran cries out in a symphony of agony not unlike the death throes of some beast to which an experienced hunter has not yet administered the final blow. I am here as ordered by our baron, and he intends my presence to signify his commitment to standing with our brothers on that cursed field.”
The Whisperwind seemed earnest enough, though Orren could not help but hear the slight intonation he gave the word that had been chosen, with meaning, by the twins. Thankfully, they chose not to react, and Razorgaze took a step back signaling the end of his short introduction.
The last warrior stepped forward. Orren knew him to be of the Embershields, as marked by his full bone armor. Across his back was a radiant sword that seemed to glimmer in the dark of the night. His horns were adorned with intricate wave patterns, long laboriously carved swooshing that bore deep into the enamel. He had great piercings running through his cheeks, and spoke with a slow gruffness that suggested they got in the way of his words.
Blazetusk of clan Embershield
“I am Blazetusk of clan Embershield, we who have felt the worst of this invasion. There are less than a score of us left.” Orren did not let emotion show, though Fangain could not hold back a small exclamation. The Embershields had always held the highest position among the people of Dran. They had the most land, the largest hordes, and the greatest glory. In a society measured by the fierceness of its warriors, they were at the top. It was common knowledge the metal invaders had hit them the hardest. To think they had been reduced to so few… “My baron was told of the essential nature of this undertaking,” Blazetusk continued. “Despite this, he parted with me hesitantly. I believe in this mission because he decided to believe in it himself. I remained skeptical upon arrival. It is not like my people, it is not like all of us to engage in such trickery. However, I can see that there is little else to be done. Now gathered here, I realize I have heard of each one of you. You are great warriors. The other barons have sent their best, just as mine has. The importance of this is not lost on me. I am glad to have joined.” Blazetusk pounded his chest once in emphasis. “Now, though, it seems introductions are at an end, and we are still missing one.”
There was a lapse into suspicious silence. Now announced, they all knew it was the Frostthunder who were missing. Orren allowed himself a deep, silent sigh. There would be no eighth. The cracks were showing. But there was nothing he could do. Not anymore. All that was left was to lead. Convince them all to go through with it.
“The secret of our task was maintained to account for this eventuality.” Orren spoke at last. “Clan Frostthunder was asked to send a warrior. They, like you, were not given further details. There is no reason to think anything more has happened. Or anything less. We may still have a late addition. We may not. As it is, the time has come for me to explain with what exactly we have been entrusted.”
Orren paused. No one spoke a word nor let out a sound. They stared at him expectantly. They were no longer only Drasul, no longer enemies, no longer warriors. They were named. They were his men. Right that he should know their names. He had condemned them.
“Tomorrow a battle will be fought, between our people and the demons. It will be the greatest battle fought in the history of our world. It is the first time all clans have come together for the good of the children of Dran. It is for our homes, for our land, for the very soul of our people. You will not be a part of this battle.” They were not surprised. They waited for him to continue. “A few months ago, my baron sent out scouts. He, with the help of the Ironforge, had established an idea of our enemy's command structure. It seems they unfailingly report to one General. This general is not a simple leader. It seems they are bound to this general in victory and defeat, as a body is bound to its heart. Or perhaps the brain. Regardless, should the heart go, the body does as well. The purpose of these scouts was to determine the location of this general. Glory hungry as they are, it was surmised he would not only be on world, but greatly tempted by the prospect of a great final battle. A few days ago one of these scouts returned. We know now, with certainty, where this general will be as the battle commences.”
“And it is our job to kill the bastard,” Fangain grumbles. Orren nods. The others are silent.
“General Zxiks, as he is known, will be entrenched with a few lesser soldiers near the rear of his forces. Up until this point in time, they do not view us as creatures of cunning. As Blazetusk so helpfully reminded us, we have a distaste for such indirect conflict. This tendency has, we hope, lured Zxiks into this vulnerability. He expects us to meet him straight tomorrow on the field of battle.”
“He expects us to meet him honorably.” Blazetusk’s voice was angry.
“And our clans will,” Orren assured.
“But not us.” Razorgaze hissed.
“Not us.” Orren watched the faces of his men. Blazetusk’s distaste was well known. Razorgaze’s scars were impossible to read. The twins seemed indifferent. Grimtok grinned savagely. Fangain turned to him with a question.
“And if the eighth does not join us?
”
“Then we are seven.” There was a murmur at that. Seven was a distrusted number among the Drasul. It was said their god had made the eighth clan so as to cure the misfortune that plagued their people in days past. This had not stopped them from seeing the eighth clan as lesser, though it was not known whether this tale was true, much less which clan that was.
“There should be eight.” Fangain’s voice was stubborn.
“There was meant to be eight.” Orren put a hand on his shoulder. “Having seven does not ruin us. Look around, each of you. These are your brothers now, whether you like it or not. See them as the greatest of us, so that they may see that of you. Each of you carries within the strength of your clan, the valor of your ancestors, and the heart of a warrior. While we might die, tomorrow many of our kin go to their assured deaths, not knowing that their blood is spilled to buy us time.” Orren looked long at each of the seven men. They were children of Dran, Drasul warriors, representatives of the great clans. They were each legends among their own people, and in that moment Orren made a vow to himself that no matter the events of the next day, he would preserve that legend. “We thought the great Moving brought us calamity, not knowing that this invasion would be what tested our people like no event in known or unknown history. Up until this moment we have but survived. Tomorrow we fight back. Tomorrow we hold what is ours.”
There was a rumbling grunt of ascent among the warriors. Orren nodded almost to himself. It was time to go.
They watched the beginning of the battle. The rest of the night they spent on the move, skirting close to the northwood as they headed toward the basin where the clans had gathered to make their last stand. It was a rising depression circled on one side by jagged cliffs. There would be no flanking the Drasul. They had a solid wall at their back. It also meant there would be no retreat. It was considered, as Blazetusk had said, honorable to fight in this way. Orren saw the doom in it. And it was Orren who had recommended this spot to his baron, who with his close counsel had been leading the alliance since its quick formation a few months ago. Sunrise found Orren’s seven up on a ridge behind the amassing armies, on the left flank of the invaders. Orren commanded a halt. It was imperative the battle begin. If it did not, no matter the reason, they could not continue.
Below them, in front of the far cliffs, the Drasul warriors stretched out in a great host, roughly divided by clan. Orren was not surprised to see the Frostthunder below. Fangain made a comment about their clear betrayal to the alliance by not supporting their mission. Orren said nothing. Their people taunted and cheered at the figures taking the field across from them. The invaders made little sound, the opaque nature of their metal soldiers reflecting the early sun in an unnatural and eerie way. There were far fewer of them than Orren expected. He wasn’t the only one surprised by the numbers of their enemy.
“Surely that is not all?” Grimtok’s deep voice was directed at no one in particular. “Blazetusk, perhaps your Embershields did more damage than you humbly cared to admit.”
Orren glanced at the bone clad man. His eyes were dark flashes. He said nothing. As it was, Grimtok had barely finished speaking when there was a strange sound. A beating, a vibration in the very air. All of them knew it well. Over top of the northwood appeared a massive creature. Sixlegged and the size of a small town, its crystalline structure glinted in the sun, its wings arduously working toward lifting higher into the sky. On its back were a swarm of the demon invaders. The foot soldiers started forward, almost lazily, as the ones on the back of the flying beast began to jump toward the armies of the clans. Craters of blood and earth erupted where they landed. The Drasul were immediately put into a frenzied defense as their lines broke down. Where there had been a wall of jeering warriors a moment before, the metal soldiers on the ground were met with nothing but a fractured line of fear. It had begun.
“We will split up.” Orren said, his voice cutting emotionless through the distant sounds of war. “We have a much better chance infiltrating as pairs, instead of a company. The general’s camp is below us, on the edge of the valley. He will be somewhere in the center. We meet there, or we do not meet at all.”
“We are seven.” Fangain muttered.
“I will go alone.” Orren answered, meeting his friend’s eyes. No one objected.
Orren allowed them to wait a moment longer. They would be ducking into the basin in a few hundred steps and so leaving the battle out of sight. What they witnessed was not pretty. It was a sight they had all seen countless times as their individual armies had been beaten back across their planet. Orren wondered briefly if anything he had done even mattered. Perhaps the fighting would be over by the time he led his men into the camp. If it was, it would make this all easier. He would no longer have a role to play in the death of his people. Or survival. He pushed those thoughts aside and led them onward.
At the bottom of the valley they split, as Orren instructed. The twins, Grimtok and Razorgaze, Blazetusk and Fangain. Each pair moved off the predetermined distance, while Orren waited solemnly to give them the headstart required to insure they all pierced the camp at around the same time. The sounds of the battle were closer now, but still muffled, over the ridge and across the valley. The shadow of the flying monster marked the sky with an ominous, constant presence. His hand rested on his sword. He did not draw it. After what he imagined was a long enough time, he started forward. Orren wondered who would get the furthest. He did not know it, but this was the order in which his men died:
The twins were first. They fought viciously, each using paired blades with long curved edges. They sliced through the weaker, built for speed sentries that surrounded the General’s camp. Their failure was their misunderstanding of the Zyrma and how they worked. While they destroyed the constructs, they did not realize these were mere suits for the alien’s true form, and one of them slithered away to warn the others. Soldier constructs descended on them at the very edge of the command formation. Briarmind was struck through the back by a demon’s piercing arm. Thornheart screamed in rage, and was still screaming, as another soldier’s blade separated his horned head from its body. It got caught in the branches of a brush, the bare sticks catching the decorative jewelry that hung from the holes in his horns.
Grimtok and Razorgaze made it into the camp, at least. They met sentries as well, but Razorgaze was equal parts cunning and cruel, and after Grimtok smashed the constructs to bits, he shot down the writhing things that tried to escape toward their allies. Treading as carefully as the mountainous ogre could, they entered the rear of the General’s camp, and were met by two soldiers quickly dispatched of. They perhaps would have made it to the general himself, had Zxiks’ magus not been bored. The void mage, under strict orders not to join a battle as good as won, was pacing around the camp, his anomaly hovering in its visceronite orb beside him. He watched with slightly startled amusement as Grimtok launched another soldier against a rock, the construct shattering with the force of the throw, leaving the Zyrma inside to be peppered with arrows from Razorgaze’s bow. The mage met the eyes of the massive drasul and saw a hint of confusion behind them. He supposed that was understandable. Though the fighting had been fierce, Dran had been conquered swiftly, and the need for his magic had been rare. His traditional mage construct, a bipedal limbed suit made of none too expensive materials, wouldn’t be any more recognizable than it was threatening. Grimtok looked back at Razorgaze, who was already loosing an arrow at the figure with the floating orb. Zxiks’ magus flicked his wrist and the anomaly was in his hand. He found it quite interesting to rip Grimtok, by far the largest drasul he’d ever seen, in half. Razorgaze’s scarred visage intrigued him, and so once the bow wielding warrior was dead, he peeled it off.
Razorgaze’s scarred visage intrigued him... so he peeled it off.
Blazetusk and Fangain made it the furthest. Both of them had killed more Zyrma than they could count, and if the invaders had bothered to keep a record, would no doubt have been at the top of their wanted list. Fangain was impressed with the embershield, who lived up to his clan’s reputation. He carried his gigantic, blazing sword, made from the tusk of a flamedorg, in both hands, relying on his hardened bone armor for defense, and cut a swath through their opposition on the left of the camp. They killed four sentries, and then a score of soldiers, before finding themselves staring at one of the six legged flying creatures. The charger was the general’s personal craft, a cosmare fully corrupted, it no longer looked to be anything from the natural world. Every part of the creature was a hexagonal, crystalline structure, jagged and rough perverted flesh. The two warriors were planning their path up onto it when two forms jumped down. They made the ground shake when they landed. Tall as a small dwelling, completely seamless figures of dull metal, with helms behind which burned a deep red anger. Both drasul immediately recognized the heralds of death. Visceronite Knights. One wielded a double bladed ax, the other bludgeoning mallets.
When Orren arrived, he found his friend’s chest crushed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His eyes took a moment to focus on Orren’s, who bent over to press his hand against his chest. Blazetusk was nowhere to be seen.
“We were never meant to succeed.” Fangain rasped.
“No.” Orren said.
“Dunnak… Thunderfrost…” Fangain had known whom the eighth clan had sent. Orren wondered why his friend had not told the others. Maybe he had.
“He discovered that the Stormhorns… that I had made a deal. I could not let him stop it.” Orren saw the look in his friend’s eyes. He moved his hand from his chest and pressed their foreheads together. “It had to be done brother.”
Fangain searched his face, looking for the secret wisdom that had led the greatest warrior his people had ever known down this inconceivable path. Whether he found it, Orren did not know. He drew his blade, pushed it into his friend’s chest, and Fangain saw no more. Turning toward the charger, he grabbed the crudely narrow holds that served as a ladder and climbed up.
“He gave us trouble that one did.” Zxiks stood in a simple soldier construct, not even one made of visceronite. He was watching the battle, or what was left of it. A small band of drasul still held out, but they had been forced into the death circle.
“He was a true warrior, we fought together in many battles.” Orren was surprised at the neutral tone his voice took.
“No no, not your friend down there. The one with that gaudy armor. He broke one of the knights. Never seen that done before.”
“The Embershields are mighty fighters.”
Zxiks nodded. “They were.” After a moment he turned toward Orren. “I would have almost thought you designed this little maneuver of yours to kill me.”
Orren said nothing. He thought that if the Zyrma general was capable of a leering grin, he would have given him one.
“Ah well. It's all over now. Congratulations. You and your Stormhorns are the last ones standing. Organized rather shrewdly I might add. Your strike team of seven is a convenient way to record your heroic death.”
“Eight.”
The general paused.
“There were eight of us that died today. Each one here in the camp, each one at the hands of the Zyrma.” Orren restated.
Zxiks shrugged and turned away. “It is as you say. Now, we have work to do. My lieutenants inform me enough have died. Time to set the survivors to work.”
Seamless figures of dull metal, with helms behind which burned a deep red anger... Visceronite Knights.
The general stepped past Orren and jumped with surprising grace off the edge of the cosmare. Orren looked down after Zxiks. He wondered if he flung himself, could he land on the construct and crush it beneath himself. Could he tear the general’s true form from the machine and squash it before it slipped away? He looked up at the battlefield. Even from this distance, he could see the viscera of death. The drasul had not gone down easy; there were plenty of deep sizzling scars left by the boiling blood of the invading demons. But the clans had lost their numbers. They were beaten. It was time for Orren to find another way. Clamoring down with much less familiarity, Orren followed general Zxiks, ready to witness the final surrender of his people.