Fan Fic Contest: Are you the best writer?

[Dadnarg434]

Hey Bro-man, thanks again. I really enjoyed your story too; it had an interesting twist, one I wasn't expecting. Utgar and Jandar forces actually working together? Mmm...that could lend itself to some good prompts coming up. The duel between Grimnak and Drake was excellent. I always love it when someone brings back an older figure, one that doesn't get much talk all the time. It builds a character that adds more depth to the game

Great story, hoping Elven Lord will get one in too. And if SoA and superfrog could manage to crank some stories out, that would be great.

P.S I missed u too bumper.

[superfrog]

Sorry guys, I couldn't get my creative juices flowing well on this one.

Maybe you'll see me get one in, but I doubt it.

[bumper15]

You guys are great, but I meant just from the weekend. I was away. We've already been over my extended absence.

[Elven Lord]

So sorry guys! I got caught up in something else! I'm finishing it right now.

Done

EDIT:

“Sooooo,” a deep voice boomed from one end of a long red carpeted hallway, “Utgar plans to strike the allies where they least are least well defended. Undoubtedly, the allies have made a great tactical error to leave the port city of Islanbell, virtually unprotected.”
“Well it is guarded by a mountain range which is virtually impassible even to those who can fly. Besides Ullar decided the port city would be too costly to upkeep, situated in mountains as it is.” Protested the green clad kyrie herald, a little feebly, knowing full well that the port could have easily received upkeep from the river.
“And now Ullar wants us to cover his butt, and keep the enemy ships out of the river because he knows full well that if that port falls there will be nothing in the way of stopping Utgar from sending his troops down that river striking Ullar a decisive death blow. That’s it isn’t it?”
The kyrie herald shrank a little more as the tall Viking chieftain shouted this last bit.
“Ok.” Finn said light heartedly, waving a hand gently for matter-of-fact emphasis.
“But you’re going to do something for me.”
“Yes?”
“Get everyone out of the town. Disappear into the high mountains. ‘forsvinde ind i de høje bjerge’ as the mages would say. I want that place a ghost town. If Utgar tries a land assault it won’t be with very many troops. I want them to arrive to a ghost town that is full of fat sheep and cattle, and bars that are full of good wine. Wait a day for them to fatten up on meat and heady wines, then strike them at dawn while they still slumber. You’ll lose some property, but you won’t lose many lives.”
The kyrie nodded his understanding then departed quickly.
”What are you all gawking at?” Finn said to the Viking cheiftains around him, get your supplies on your boats we leave at crack of dawn for the mouth of Islanbell harbor.”

”Are you sure about this brother?” Thorgrim asked Finn, ”We are bound to lose many lives.”
”Are you so stricken with fear that you deign to your basist instincts?”
”It is not fear that drives my question, but wisdom.”
”Oh?”
”Brother, what if we do exactly as you will have the villagers do? Instead of fighting a pitched naval battle in a confined space we could let them beach their ships. Decide it was more lightly defended then they thought, and inevitably fall to what they do best, feasting and getting drunk. Then we burn their ships and fall upon them from the mountains. They’ll never see it coming brother. We already know that Utgar has sent orcs to do this job, and orcs r’ stupid.”
Finn mulled this over for a few moments, then nodded at the wisdom. Very well then. I will inform the chieftains of the change before we disembark.

The Scandinavians had just finished hiding their longships in the tall rushes, and themselves in the mountains. They built no cooking fires and instead ate trail rations of dried beef and pulled pork jerky. Then they waited for their foes to come, thankful for the fog that hid their positions even better than before.
Then they came.
The orcs beached their troll hide ships, and ran screaming ”Murder bloody murder” (translated ”urrrggghashughrahgarugghhurra!”) into the town. If they were surprised to find no one there it came through as a delightful surprise. They instantly fell about looting and plundering and drinking themselves dizzy.
At dawn the next morning the townsfolk and the raiders from the North came crashing down upon them, shredding through their sleeping drunken forms like a hot knife through butter. A few resisted, but soon lost a few necessary appendages if not more. At the last minute Finn decided not to burn the troll hide ships. They had a very orcish vibe, and could come in handy for future reconassaince of Utgar’s beach and sea based forces.

[AMIS]

Keeping it short 'cause I'm running behind...

Spoiler Alert!

It was still dark.
The Gruts had advanced on mass that storm cloud covered morning and they watched in exuberant anticipation as Sudema and half her army of Micro corp. had moved out to meet them on the beach. But the exhilaration turned to horror as the two score of Romans guarding Einar’s entrance to the Underdark watched Sudema and Tornak shake hands and point their way.

All day the soldiers had watched and planned the defense of their mud outpost but against two armies, armies that had them completely surrounded, the defense would be in vein.
Sudema had at least offered them protection when the sun had reached its zenith somewhere above the storm clouds and laughed when she received no answer. No brave comeback this time. Not even a whimpering yelp. Everyone understaood this was a forgone conclusion and that the evil was slowly organizing itself to roll into the post.

Sure, they would put up resistance, give them everything they had, but the battle was over before it began. All that was left was the waiting. The sun may have been shining but not here and not today.
Several legionnaires had gathered to plot an escape route but they needed more time. Time for the handful of folks who’d braved the Underdark to come back. When they would come back maybe they stood a chance…IF they came back. They’d been considered the bravest and most heroic warriors that were part of this largely Vydar army and none had considered it strange that Sudema had stayed to keep control the agents, until that fateful handshake.

Now it looked as though the only realistic escape any was following them down through the cavern but the gloom of the entrance hung thick in the air and created strange shadows on this lightless day. For some it was too overwhelming and disparaging but the others using their training and experience had calmed them down.

A drum beat struck in the distance and forty heads as one peered over the top to see an army slowly sauntering towards them.

[bumper15]

Voting will be tomorrow afternoon if anyone else wants in.

[Son of Arathorn]

A short work for your consideration, my lord bumper15.

Spoiler Alert!

A grey mist hung over the jungle canopy, the airborne dew breaking the shafts of light cast by the sun as it rose over the southeast Ticalla. Nearly a hundred feet below the bright emerald leaves that strained for the rays of the sun, darkness reigned supreme. Not a bit of light penetrated this far down, and the creatures of the forest had learned long ago, the instinct that drove their survival, that the all-emcompassing dark was not to be feared. It was a tool, perhaps the only one that could be relied upon in times of danger. Amongst the thick trees and dense brush, creatures called out in anguished pain and delighted feast alike. The jungle as it stood hadn’t been truly alive since the first days of the great war, and the cycle of life and death that drove the fauna and trees and mud to thrive was in a downward spiral. Invasion was coming, death was overwhelming the very air, and decay pervaded the mist as it descended to the dark forest floor.
Nestled amongst the cracked slime of the ground were hundreds of improvised lean-to’s shelters constructed of branch and dirt to give the soldiers, huddled in the dark, some protection from those around them. Not neat rows of an army disciplined, but scattered amongst the trees. Chaos hung amongst the camp, lit torches protruding from hollows in the trees and forks in the branches, giving a weak light to the awakening men as they emerged from their shelter.
Dark shapes came out of the trees to stand about a great fire, watching as it struggled against the dank, heavy air. The largest of them strode forward to speak. The crowd listened intently as a hushed whisper pierced the weight of the mist to slink amongst them.
“Running Deer. Step forward.” At the command, a slight young man stumbled close to the fire and knelt in the weak light. Black mud adorned his face, and a fur cloak rank with the smell of flesh was draped across his frail shoulders. The voice came forth again, “What news from the west?”
“Elder, I bring greivous tidings. The north is nigh on overrun, the borders of Jandar are weakening. But Elder, this is not the work of Utgar...”
A pause, and the strong voice spoke once more. “Go on.”
“Yes, Elder. We have been betrayed. News came out of the Underdark and the Northern Front at the same time. Vydar has turned against the Alliance. The forces of Jandar have been crumbling before a campaign north. They seek to overrun Laur, I am told.”
The air seemed to grow heavier. The fire flickered, the light retreating inwards to the coals, seeking refuge from the deathly cold of the mists.
“Thank you Running Deer. But this is not what I asked. You give me news of the north, but what of the west?”
The young man clutched his ragged cloak to his body, flecks of dried mud coming away from his copper skin. “Elder... our spies in Kinsland have told me that Utgar is ammassing his armies. One tells me that Utgar means to strike here with all swiftness, and then proceed north.”
“Why?” The voice was nearly inaudible.
“Elder, our spies believe that Utgar sees Aquilla as the final hindrance keeping his forces south. He dares not move against Jandar knowing that she is so close. And now that Jandar is weakened, he wishes to dispel this threat so he can send all of his forces north without fear of a strike from the south.” Running Deer scratched at the fur cloak once more, mud and animal hair coming off in patches now.
The Elder spoke again. “Are we then to reinforce Pataquala? Halt the advance before he moves too far?”
Running Deer seemed to collapse in on himself with the next words. “Elder, please. Please. Pataquala fell three days ago. There were no conditions. No surrender. No man is left alive. They now make for Dahali, in hopes of crushing what is left.” The circle of men fell into whispers of fear, drawing away from the fire as it’s flames failed, the coals giving off only a flicker of light.
The Elder raised his hand in a fist, and silence was immediate. “Thank you, Running Deer. Go now, to the camps of the dwarves and mearas. Tell them this, and tell them they are to meet with me at Jocasta Hill in three days time. And make haste, good warrior.”
Running Deer rose shakily, pushed past the stunned circle of men, and disappeared into the dark mist.
The Elder stepped into the midst of the nearly dead fire, snapping a whip-like branch from a nearby tree. He held the branch over the coals, and twisted it. Thick water cam forth, and falling upon the embers, it flared into a pillar of fire, illuminating the entire circle. Elder stared into the tired, scared, dirty faces of his warriors, cast into blinding light for only a moment. Then, as quickly as it had arisen, the fire died, the embers extinguished after their last proud gasp of life. Darkness overwhelmed the men. Elder spoke once more. “Gather the weapons, and food for a week. We must go now.”
In minutes, a line of men left their camp in the mud, bearing with them sticks of fire, weapons, and meager food. Not enough food to last them to the next outpost, little enough for a week. Single file, heads hung, they followed Elder into the darkness of the jungle.

“It is settled, then?” Elder stared into the rough faces of his fellow commanders. Rough-bearded and squint-eyed, King Dorrond of the dwarves nodded gravely, leaning heavily upon an axe carved with runes. Hair matted, chest scarred, Tikweh of the Quasatch tribes slapped a large fist to his bare chest, giving a hoot of approval. Lastly, Gilliyen of the mearas saluted, uniform crisp, his shining weapon tucked into the leather holster.
Dorrond hefted his axe, casting a great shadow upon the walls of the tent. “To the Halls of the Gods then. To the end, my friends.”
All four closed their eyes for a moment and chanted as one. To the end.

The Grut Chieftain stepped into the valley, the sound of running water and wild animals filling his ears. Adorned with great armor and a spear longer than a man, he sat astride a scaly creature, reins in one hand, the other hanging loose to the saddle. Behind him marched a great host of Orcs, wearing thick armor and carrying heavy weaponry in the sweltering heat. At their flanks were the cavalry, more Orcs upon Swog and Raptor. Bringing up the reare was rank upon rank of archers, accompanied by great champions upon fearsome mounts, their weapons hanging in the saddle.
Such a host had never been seen upon their homeworld, Grut, but by the power of Utgar they had been united for the Great March, as he had called it. The sweeping away of the enemies, cleansing the jungles of the south before the final push north.
A shrill cry went up from the tree above the Chieftain, and his mount shied away from the shallow water before them. Birds flew into the sky, easy to see as the trees parted to reveal the steep sides of the valley, and the sun. For days they had gone without sight of it, but now it was bared for all in the host to gaze upon.
His face set, the Chieftain dug in with his knees, and uttering a nervous growl, his mount trotted forth, barely ankle-deep through the water. Strange to see, he thought, for the smooth river rocks and water-plants continued up several more feet, yet were dry. Glancing at the Orcs following behind, the Chieftain away a bothersome fly. The sun was brutally hot now, accounting easily for the river’s dry banks. On, though they would barely be halfway through the valley by nightfall, on the Orcs pressed.

Darkness fell across the land quickly now, for the sun descended between the edges of the valley walls to set in the west. The Orcs made light camp upon the banks of the river, stretching back nearly a third of the valley’s length. They avoided the trees, prefering to gaze upon the stars as they ate and drank. Many warriors still marveled at them, for the stars were strange in this land, and unnerved them when they thought of the difference between here, and the heavens above Grut. Still, open sky was better than suffocating jungle any night.
After much feasting upon game and drink, the Chieftain and his champions settled in for the night, sleep falling unto them as quickly as the dark had. Scouts huddled on the ends of the column, torches around them.

Soon, the Orcs gave out drunken cries of pain. Under cover of dark, men had slunk down the dry riverbed, past the posted scouts, and begun to slit the throats of the sleeping warriors. The animals, tethered to posts, snarled at the intruders, snatching those men that strayed too close and tearing them to shreds. Soon the camp was alert, snatching up weapons and baying for blood.
As quietly as they had entered, the men withdrew to the trees, firing shots from muskets, loud cracks of gunpowder echoing throught the valley. The Orcs loosed arrows into the trees blindly, until the screams of the champions, now roused, formed the warriors into ranks. Quickly, they charged the men. Many were impaled upon the spears, thrust through them and stuck fast into the trunks of trees. Soon, the remaining men fled up the valley slopes, deep into the jungle. Few warriors gave chase, stumbling back to their meager beds in hopes of sleep.
They found none, for these raids continued into the night, and though only small numbers were taken by the sneaking men, musket shots rang at random through the night. More guards were posted, more torches lit, and the warriors tossed and turned, listening closely for the sound of a quiet footstep and unsheathed knives.

The Orcs awoke from what fitful sleep they could find, blinking at the harsh light reflecting off a light mist. Groggy from the torments of the night before, they began to roll up their blankets, partake of small provisions, and saddle the animals, which still pawed the ground nervously. Few Orcs took notice, for even the Chieftain felt the draining need of sleep upon himself.
As the army began their slog down the last stretch of riverbed, the mists began to swirl, the rising an falling air inside the valley sending the grey winds into turmoil. It was in this moment, the army about to leave the valley, the sun rising at their backs, the mists lifting, that the sound of a great war-horn bellowed forth, sending waves through the air to strike the backs of the warriors as they followed their leader. The horn was soon joined by the war cries of hundreds of warriors, reverberating throughout the valley, driving pain into the eardrums of the sleep-deprived Orcs.
The warriors of Utgar turned about wildly, seeking out their enemy in the wild trees, for it seemed that the sound was surrounding them on all sides. Back up the riverbank by some several hundred feet was a line of dwarven warriors, beating axes upon their shields and yelling as one being. Standing behind them, perched upon a boulder in the middle of the river’s remnants stood another dwarf, a flag planted at his side bearing the golden seal of Aquilla upon a background of deep purple, black, and blue. The mists parted around them, this small army standing in shallow water that nonetheless almost reached their waists in some places.
While some Orcs gazed in awe, the Chieftain had ridden upon his mount to the front, marshalling his troops into lines and assigning his champions to their places amongst the formation. As he did, the dwarves continued to beat upon their shields, their driving rhythm sending ripples across to their enemies.
In minutes, the Orcs were molded into columns of warriors, spears at the front, bows behind them. The Chieftain withdrew into the folds of the army, and his place at the front was taken by Grimnak, Bane of Bleakewoode. His spear aloft, screaming to be heard above the beating of shields, the champion uttered an order not heard by his warriors, who were all but deafened by the sounds vibrating the valley walls. Snarling, he pulled a short knife from his pack, and finding a chink in the scaly armor, made a slit in his mount’s flesh.
An unholy sound of pain and fury broke through the din of shields, and the Orcs began their march to the dwarves, swift but wary.
Halfway to the line, the archers halted, and drawing back arrows, loosed them upon the enemy. Amidst the screams of those dwarves that had not been protected by their shields and armor, Grimnak uttered a guttural scream, and spurring his creature forward, crashed into the line of dwarves alongside his warriors on foot.
A battle-song of metal upon metal, of cries of pain and yells of fury, of swords and shattering shields sang through the valley. The grey mists descended to encompass the warriors, and the standard of Aquilla still waved amongst the terrible chaos. The shrieks of Grimnak’s mount mingled with the screams of it’s victims as one by one they were plucked from the crowd. No soldier withstoood the onslought of rider and mount as they carved a great swathe through the ranks of the dwarves.
Two bursts of the war-horn arose, and the dwarves pulled away from the Orcs, locking shields in an attempt to give themselves a brief respite from the assault of the horde. The Orcs threw themselves upon the shield wall, to no avail. Grimnak charged forward, and as he reached the line, a great warrior stepped from the shield wall. His beard plated down his heavily armored chest, a helm of iron upon his head, the dwarf hefted a great barbed spear, and yelled bloody murder into the face of Grimnak’s mount. A leering grin upon his face, the Orc nudged his scaly mount forward, and as the jaws unhinged to bite down upon the foolish warrior, the spear was instead thrust forward between the rows of razor-sharp teeth. Emerging from the base of the skull, the mount fell forward upon the weapon, the head of the spear rending a deep wound along the rider’s chest. Uttering a cry of pain, Grimnak fell sideways from his mount, crashing into the riverbank below. His mount heaved itself to it’s feet for the last time, and fell upon it’s rider, defeated and lying in ruin.
The Orc horde fell silent for a moment, stunned at the defeat of their greatest champion. In this moment, the iron-helmed dwarf stepped forward to reclaim his weapon from the head of the beast, and leveling it at the horde, leading the charge through the water to meet the enemy.

Now the Chieftain, seeing his champion fall, roared in anger, and swerved his mount in a great arc, spear aloft, crying out for his second wave to advance, to reinforce Grimnak’s forces, now in disarray with the loss of their leader. Though only a small fraction of the army was lost, fury was such in the Chieftain’s mind as he had never felt. Bloodlust he had felt, anger, and pain through his years leading the forces of Grut in Utgar’s armies, but fury such as this had never entered his mind and heart until this hour. The mounts of the champions he had gathered about himself shied away from this rabid creature. His fury would not soon end.
As the second wave advanced to absorb and reinforce the first, a new stream of war cries went up. Not from the river before them, not the dwarves, but from the trees above, and the cracks of musket shots soon filled the air as copper-skinned warriors fired down upon the running soldiers. In their hast to escape the enemy and join their comrades, the second wave thinned, spread, and finally broke ranks. Tribesmen dashed out of the trees, tomahawks and rifle stocks caving in the heads of their enemies and driving the Orcs to use their unweildly halbards in such close combat. Most had to lose the advantage of their reach by instead using knives or short swords. Even ground belonged soon to the copper-skinned. By the time the first soldiers of the second wave reached their comrades at the front, both were so depleted that the dwarves locked shields, and as one were able to push the Orcs to their knees for the Tribesmen to slaughter.

The champions fell into a hushed silence as the Chieftain glared at his dying warriors, and the now thin ranks of the enemy. His eyes mad, the Chieftain turned to his champions, and uttered an order. All are to advance at once, to run the enemy to ground with sheer numbers. The champions shall remain at the back, and the enemy shall perish before the endless assault.
The Orcs pushed once more up the riverbed, and made short work of those Tribesmen that could not reach the safety of the shields. On to the dwarves they went, and soon the two sides were locked in brutal combat. Slowly but surely, the dwarves began to fall. Archers leveled volley after volley into the crowd, killing both Orcs and dwarves in their wild shots. No matter to the Chieftain, for their numbers were of those spoken only in legends of battle-heroes, and the enemy was falling back.
An evil grin began to alight upon the Chieftain’s features, but was wiped away by the sound of screams behind him. A champion upon a large Swog had toppled from his saddle, clutching at a shoulder wound. A gaping hole left his arm all but detached from his body. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. Fighting amongst the rear guard stood many men, loosing shots at the cluster of champions stationed at the rear of the column, and the guards seemed powerless to stop the volleys.
Screaming, the Chieftain charged into the crowd, spear impaling the men, their bright skin making them easily distinguishable from his own warriors. Soon they were killed, but not before most of the champions had been killed, or worse yet, crippled by the shots.
Murder smoldered in the eyes of the Chieftain, and turning to the front, yelled for more volleys from the archers. By the time the Chieftain reached the dwarves and Orcs fighting for control of the battle’s direction, fewer than twenty dwarves remained, clustered about their standard-bearer and their shields locked once more.

Far above the valley, at the river’s source, Gilliyen stared through field glasses at the ruin brought by the arrows to their comrades below. And still he waited as more and more of their warriors fell before the onslought of the endless tide of Orcs.
Finally, as all seemed lost upon them, and the final volley rained down, Gilliyen ducked behind a large rock with two of his comrades, raised his rifle, and fired a single shot at the mass of grey-green gelatin they had spent hours working into the rocks forming a high, narrow dam across the riverbed. The heat raised blisters upon their skin, and the rock dust flew into their lungs. Pain on their skin and insides caused them to pass out, all within a minute of each other.

Before him knelt the last dwarf, the standard bearer of the insolent warriors. Arrows embedded in he joints of his armor kept him from standing, and a grievous wound to his collar made his breath come in gasps. The Chieftain dismounted, strode to the dwarf, and kicked him to the ground. Blood leaked from the warrior’s mouth. The Chieftain snatched a halberd from one of his soldiers, and swiftly embedded it in the dying warrior’s chest, grinding the tip into the river rocks.
The dying breath came at the same time as the explosion far, far above them.

Water, now unleashed after days of confinement, poured into the valley, guided by the riverbanks. It thundered around a bend or two, and overspilled on the third curve to bring down some trees. But most was sent spiraling down the channel to meet the Orcs, all standing in it’s path.

The warriors had the good sense to run, some even thought to scramble up the sides of the banks. The Chieftain, his hands still clutching at the spear, stared blankly into the oncoming waves of unforgiving water. He took no notice of the Quasatch fighters that kept much of his army from climbing out of the riverbed, but instead looked from the water, to the ruined flag of his enemies upon the ground, and finally to the sun finally piercing the grey mists about him. Blood of his enemies ran thick about his feet, soon to be washed away by the furious wall of water, by the great river. And so came the Cleansing of the Great River of all whom had come to seek conquest and defense.

[The Grim Reaper's Friend]

Originally Posted by Son of Arathorn

A short work for your consideration, my lord bumper15.

Spoiler Alert!

A grey mist hung over the jungle canopy, the airborne dew breaking the shafts of light cast by the sun as it rose over the southeast the Ticalla. Nearly a hundred feet below the bright emerald leaves that strained for the rays of the sun, darkness reigned supreme. Not a bit of light penetrated this far down, and the creatures of the forest had learned long ago, the instinct that drove their survival, that the all-emcompassing dark was not to be feared. It was a tool, perhaps the only one that could be relied upon in times of danger. Amongst the thick trees and dense brush, creatures called out in anguished pain and delighted feast alike. The jungle as it stood hadn’t been truly alive since the first days of the great war, and the cycle of life and death that drove the fauna of the trees and mud to thrive was in a downward spiral. Invasion was coming, death was overwhelming the very air, and decay pervaded the mist as it descended to the dark forest floor.
Nestled amongst the cracked slime of the ground were hundreds of improvised lean-to’s shelters constructed of branch and dirt to give the soldiers, huddled in the dark, some protection from those around them. Not neat rows of an army disciplined, but scattered amongst the trees. Chaos hung amongst the camp, lit torches protruding from hollows in the trees and forks in the branches, giving light to the awakening men as they emerged from their shelter.
Dark shapes came out of the trees to stand about a great fire, watching as it struggled against the dank, heavy air. The largest of them strode forward to speak. The crowd listened intently as a hushed whisper pierced the weight of the mist to slink amongst them.
“Running Deer. Step forward.” At the command, a slight young man stumbled close to the fire and knelt in the weak light. Black mud adorned his face, and a fur cloak rank with the smell of flesh was draped across his frail shoulders. The voice came forth again, “What news from the west?”
“Elder, I bring greivous tidings. The north is nigh on overrun, the borders of Jandar are weakening. But Elder, this is not the work of Utgar...”
A pause, and the strong voice spoke once more. “Go on.”
“Yes, Elder. We have been betrayed. News came out of the Underdark and the Northern Front at the same time. Vydar has turned against the Alliance. The forces of Jandar have been crumbling before a campaign north. They seek to overrun Laur, I am told.”
The air seemed to grow heavier. The fire flickered, the light retreating inwards to the coals, seeking refuge from the deathly cold of the mists.
“Thank you Running Deer. But this is not what I asked. You give me news of the north, but what of the west?”
The young man clutched his ragged cloak to his body, flecks of dried mud coming away from his copper skin. “Elder... our spies in Kinsland have told me that Utgar is ammassing his armies. One tells me that Utgar means to strike here with all swiftness, and then proceed north.”
“Why?” The voice was nearly inaudible.
“Elder, our spies believe that Utgar sees Aquilla as the final hindrance keeping his forces south. He dares not move against Jandar knowing that she is so close. And now that Jandar is weakened, he wishes to dispel this threat so he can send all of his forces north without fear of a strike from the south.” Running Deer scratched at the fur cloak once more, mud and animal hair coming off in patches now.
The Elder spoke again. “Are we then to reinforce Pataquala? Halt the advance before he moves too far?”
Running Deer seemed to collapse in on himself with the next words. “Elder, please. Please. Pataquala fell three days ago. There were no conditions. No surrender. No man is left alive. They now make for Dahali, in hopes of crushing what is left.” The circle of men fell into whispers of fear, drawing away from the fire as it’s flames failed, the coals giving off only a flicker of light.
The Elder raised his hand in a fist, and silence was immediate. “Thank you, Running Deer. Go now, to the camps of the dwarves and mearas. Tell them this, and tell them they are to meet with me at Jocasta Hill in three days time. And make haste, good warrior.”
Running Deer rose shakily, pushed past the stunned circle of men, and disappeared into the dark mist.
The Elder stepped into the midst of the nearly dead fire, snapping a whip-like branch from a nearby tree. He held the branch over the coals, and twisted it. Thick water cam forth, and falling upon the embers, it flared into a pillar of fire, illuminating the entire circle. Elder stared into the tired, scared, dirty faces of his warriors, cast into blinding light for only a moment. Then, as quickly as it had arisen, the fire died, the embers extinguished after their last proud gasp of life. Darkness overwhelmed the men. Elder spoke once more. “Gather the weapons, and food for a week. We must go now.”
In minutes, a line of men left their camp in the mud, bearing with them sticks of fire, weapons, and meager food. Not enough food to last them to the next outpost, little enough for a week. Single file, heads hung, they followed Elder into the darkness of the jungle.

“It is settled, then?” Elder stared into the rough faces of his fellow commanders. Rough-bearded and squint-eyed, King Dorrond of the dwarves nodded gravely, leaning heavily upon an axe carved with runes. Hair matted, chest scarred, Tikweh of the Quasatch tribes slapped a large fist to his bare chest, giving a hoot of approval. Lastly, Gilliyen of the mearas saluted, uniform crisp, his shining weapon tucked into the leather holster.
Dorrond hefted his axe, casting a great shadow upon the walls of the tent. “To the Halls of the Gods then. To the end, my friends.”
All four closed their eyes for a moment and chanted as one. To the end.

The Grut Chieftain stepped into the valley, the sound of running water and wild animals filling his ears. Adorned with great armor and a spear longer than a man, he sat astride a scaly creature, reins in one hand, the other hanging loose to the saddle. Behind him marched a great host of Orcs, wearing thick armor and carrying heavy weaponry in the sweltering heat. At their flanks were the cavalry, more Orcs upon Swog and Raptor. Bringing up the reare was rank upon rank of archers, accompanied by great champions upon fearsome mounts, their weapons hanging in the saddle.
Such a host had never been seen upon their homeworld, Grut, but by the power of Utgar they had been united for the Great March, as he had called it. The sweeping away of the enemies, cleansing the jungles of the south before the final push north.
A shrill cry went up from the tree above the Chieftain, and his mount shied away from the shallow water before them. Birds flew into the sky, easy to see as the trees parted to reveal the steep sides of the valley, and the sun. For days they had gone without sight of it, but now it was bared for all in the host to gaze upon.
His face set, the Chieftain dug in with his knees, and uttering a nervous growl, his mount trotted forth, barely ankle-deep through the water. Strange to see, he thought, for the smooth river rocks and water-plants continued up several more feet, yet were dry. Glancing at the Orcs following behind, the Chieftain away a bothersome fly. The sun was brutally hot now, accounting easily for the river’s dry banks. On, though they would barely be halfway through the valley by nightfall, on the Orcs pressed.

Darkness fell across the land quickly now, for the sun descended between the edges of the valley walls to set in the west. The Orcs made light camp upon the banks of the river, stretching back nearly a third of the valley’s length. They avoided the trees, prefering to gaze upon the stars as they ate and drank. Many warriors still marveled at them, for the stars were strange in this land, and unnerved them when they thought of the difference between here, and the heavens above Grut. Still, open sky was better than suffocating jungle any night.
After much feasting upon game and drink, the Chieftain and his champions settled in for the night, sleep falling unto them as quickly as the dark had. Scouts huddled on the ends of the column, torches around them.

Soon, the Orcs gave out drunken cries of pain. Under cover of dark, men had slunk down the dry riverbed, past the posted scouts, and begun to slit the throats of the sleeping warriors. The animals, tethered to posts, snarled at the intruders, snatching those men that strayed too close and tearing them to shreds. Soon the camp was alert, snatching up weapons and baying for blood.
As quietly as they had entered, the men withdrew to the trees, firing shots from muskets, loud cracks of gunpowder echoing throught the valley. The Orcs loosed arrows into the trees blindly, until the screams of the champions, now roused, formed the warriors into ranks. Quickly, they charged the men. Many were impaled upon the spears, thrust through them and stuck fast into the trunks of trees. Soon, the remaining men fled up the valley slopes, deep into the jungle. Few warriors gave chase, stumbling back to their meager beds in hopes of sleep.
They found none, for these raids continued into the night, and though only small numbers were taken by the sneaking men, musket shots rang at random through the night. More guards were posted, more torches lit, and the warriors tossed and turned, listening closely for the sound of a quiet footstep and unsheathed knives.

The Orcs awoke from what fitful sleep they could find, blinking at the harsh light reflecting off a light mist. Groggy from the torments of the night before, they began to roll up their blankets, partake of small provisions, and saddle the animals, which still pawed the ground nervously. Few Orcs took notice, for even the Chieftain felt the draining need of sleep upon himself.
As the army began their slog down the last stretch of riverbed, the mists began to swirl, the rising an falling air inside the valley sending the grey winds into turmoil. It was in this moment, the army about to leave the valley, the sun rising at their backs, the mists lifting, that the sound of a great war-horn bellowed forth, sending waves through the air to strike the backs of the warriors as they followed their leader. The horn was soon joined by the war cries of hundreds of warriors, reverberating throughout the valley, driving pain into the eardrums of the sleep-deprived Orcs.
The warriors of Utgar turned about wildly, seeking out their enemy in the wild trees, for it seemed that the sound was surrounding them on all sides. Back up the riverbank by some several hundred feet was a line of dwarven warriors, beating axes upon their shields and yelling as one being. Standing behind them, perched upon a boulder in the middle of the river’s remnants stood another dwarf, a flag planted at his side bearing the golden seal of Aquilla upon a background of deep purple, black, and blue. The mists parted around them, this small army standing in shallow water that nonetheless almost reached their waists in some places.
While some Orcs gazed in awe, the Chieftain had ridden upon his mount to the front, marshalling his troops into lines and assigning his champions to their places amongst the formation. As he did, the dwarves continued to beat upon their shields, their driving rhythm sending ripples across to their enemies.
In minutes, the Orcs were molded into columns of warriors, spears at the front, bows behind them. The Chieftain withdrew into the folds of the army, and his place at the front was taken by Grimnak, Bane of Bleakewoode. His spear aloft, screaming to be heard above the beating of shields, the champion uttered an order not heard by his warriors, who were all but deafened by the sounds vibrating the valley walls. Snarling, he pulled a short knife from his pack, and finding a chink in the scaly armor, made a slit in his mount’s flesh.
An unholy sound of pain and fury broke through the din of shields, and the Orcs began their march to the dwarves, swift but wary.
Halfway to the line, the archers halted, and drawing back arrows, loosed them upon the enemy. Amidst the screams of those dwarves that had not been protected by their shields and armor, Grimnak uttered a guttural scream, and spurring his creature forward, crashed into the line of dwarves alongside his warriors on foot.
A battle-song of metal upon metal, of cries of pain and yells of fury, of swords and shattering shields sang through the valley. The grey mists descended to encompass the warriors, and the standard of Aquilla still waved amongst the terrible chaos. The shrieks of Grimnak’s mount mingled with the screams of it’s victims as one by one they were plucked from the crowd. No soldier withstoood the onslought of rider and mount as they carved a great swathe through the ranks of the dwarves.
Two bursts of the war-horn arose, and the dwarves pulled away from the Orcs, locking shields in an attempt to give themselves a brief respite from the assault of the horde. The Orcs threw themselves upon the shield wall, to no avail. Grimnak charged forward, and as he reached the line, a great warrior stepped from the shield wall. His beard plated down his heavily armored chest, a helm of iron upon his head, the dwarf hefted a great barbed spear, and yelled bloody murder into the face of Grimnak’s mount. A leering grin upon his face, the Orc nudged his scaly mount forward, and as the jaws unhinged to bite down upon the foolish warrior, the spear was instead thrust forward between the rows of razor-sharp teeth. Emerging from the base of the skull, the mount fell forward upon the weapon, the head of the spear rending a deep wound along the rider’s chest. Uttering a cry of pain, Grimnak fell sideways from his mount, crashing into the riverbank below. His mount heaved itself to it’s feet for the last time, and fell upon it’s rider, defeated and lying in ruin.
The Orc horde fell silent for a moment, stunned at the defeat of their greatest champion. In this moment, the iron-helmed dwarf stepped forward to reclaim his weapon from the head of the beast, and leveling it at the horde, leading the charge through the water to meet the enemy.

Now the Chieftain, seeing his champion fall, roared in anger, and swerved his mount in a great arc, spear aloft, crying out for his second wave to advance, to reinforce Grimnak’s forces, now in disarray with the loss of their leader. Though only a small fraction of the army was lost, fury was such in the Chieftain’s mind as he had never felt. Bloodlust he had felt, anger, and pain through his years leading the forces of Grut in Utgar’s armies, but fury such as this had never entered his mind and heart until this hour. The mounts of the champions he had gathered about himself shied away from this rabid creature. His fury would not soon end.
As the second wave advanced to absorb and reinforce the first, a new stream of war cries went up. Not from the river before them, not the dwarves, but from the trees above, and the cracks of musket shots soon filled the air as copper-skinned warriors fired down upon the running soldiers. In their hast to escape the enemy and join their comrades, the second wave thinned, spread, and finally broke ranks. Tribesmen dashed out of the trees, tomahawks and rifle stocks caving in the heads of their enemies and driving the Orcs to use their unweildly halbards in such close combat. Most had to lose the advantage of their reach by instead using knives or short swords. Even ground belonged soon to the copper-skinned. By the time the first soldiers of the second wave reached their comrades at the front, both were so depleted that the dwarves locked shields, and as one were able to push the Orcs to their knees for the Tribesmen to slaughter.

The champions fell into a hushed silence as the Chieftain glared at his dying warriors, and the now thin ranks of the enemy. His eyes mad, the Chieftain turned to his champions, and uttered an order. All are to advance at once, to run the enemy to ground with sheer numbers. The champions shall remain at the back, and the enemy shall perish before the endless assault.
The Orcs pushed once more up the riverbed, and made short work of those Tribesmen that could not reach the safety of the shields. On to the dwarves they went, and soon the two sides were locked in brutal combat. Slowly but surely, the dwarves began to fall. Archers leveled volley after volley into the crowd, killing both Orcs and dwarves in their wild shots. No matter to the Chieftain, for their numbers were of those spoken only in legends of battle-heroes, and the enemy was falling back.
An evil grin began to alight upon the Chieftain’s features, but was wiped away by the sound of screams behind him. A champion upon a large Swog had toppled from his saddle, clutching at a shoulder wound. A gaping hole left his arm all but detached from his body. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. Fighting amongst the rear guard stood many men, loosing shots at the cluster of champions stationed at the rear of the column, and the guards seemed powerless to stop the volleys.
Screaming, the Chieftain charged into the crowd, spear impaling the men, their bright skin making them easily distinguishable from his own warriors. Soon they were killed, but not before most of the champions had been killed, or worse yet, crippled by the shots.
Murder smoldered in the eyes of the Chieftain, and turning to the front, yelled for more volleys from the archers. By the time the Chieftain reached the dwarves and Orcs fighting for control of the battle’s direction, fewer than twenty dwarves remained, clustered about their standard-bearer and their shields locked once more.

Far above the valley, at the river’s source, Gilliyen stared through field glasses at the ruin brought by the arrows to their comrades below. And still he waited as more and more of their warriors fell before the onslought of the endless tide of Orcs.
Finally, as all seemed lost upon them, and the final volley rained down, Gilliyen ducked behind a large rock with two of his comrades, raised his rifle, and fired a single shot at the mass of grey-green gelatin they had spent hours working into the rocks forming a high, narrow dam across the riverbed. The heat raised blisters upon their skin, and the rock dust flew into their lungs. Pain on their skin and insides caused them to pass out, all within a minute of each other.

Before him kneelt the last dwarf, the standard bearer of the insolent warriors. Arrows embedded in he joints of his armor kept him from standing, and a grievous wound to his collar made his breath come in gasps. The Chieftain dismounted, strode to the dwarf, and kicked him to the ground. Blood leaked from the warrior’s mouth. The Chieftain snatched a halberd from one of his soldiers, and swiftly embedded it in the dying warrior’s chest, grinding the tip into the river rocks.
The dying breath came at the same time as the explosion far, far above them.

Water, now unleashed after days of confinement, poured into the valley, guided by the riverbanks. It thundered around a bend or two, and overspilled on the third curve to bring down some trees. But most was sent spiraling down the channel to meet the Orcs, all standing in it’s path.

The warriors had the good sense to run, some even thought to scramble up the sides of the banks. The Chieftain, his hands still clutching at the spear, stared blankly into the oncoming waves of unforgiving water. He took no notice of the Quasatch fighters that kept much of his army from climbing out of the riverbed, but instead looked from the water, to the ruined flag of his enemies upon the ground, and finally to the sun finally piercing the grey mists about him. Blood of his enemies ran thick about his feet, soon to be washed away by the furious wall of water, by the great river. And so came the Cleansing of the Great River of all whom had come to seek conquest and defense.

A short work? You sure about that?

[Son of Arathorn]

Yeah. that's short.

[bumper15]

Ok ya'll! Let's get our judge on!

Third:

Spoiler Alert!

Son of Arathorn- The story was fantastic, but, like GRF stated, I thought it was a little long and seemed to drag a bit in the middle. The story at its core was great.

Second:

Spoiler Alert!

Bro-man- I really enjoyed your unlikely alliance and how it leaves a possibility for more between Drake and Grimnak. What killed your story was grammar, I recommend proofreading, mostly for changes in tense.

First:

Spoiler Alert!

Dadnarg-Fantastic story and creative. I really enjoyed it. I also recommend some proofreading though.

Thank you for the other entries, keeping spinning out creative works.

[The Grim Reaper's Friend]

Originally Posted by bumper15

Thank you for the other entries, keeping spinning out creative works.

Pst! Grammar!

[Bro-man]

Originally Posted by The Grim Reaper's Friend

Pst! Grammar!

I was close, I knew I should have taken my time on that story and re-read it and make changes, guess I was not paying attention. Second place is not that bad. I can't wait for next Prompt, I will do better next time.

Oh and Dadnarg. If your curious of how Drake and Grimnak first met and what Drake did during their encounter. I am having chapter coming soon for my story that will tell of what happened. So you can come and check it out if you want.