Orc's Drift - The Grand Finale

[Thantsants]

Thanks chaps - I hope this doesn't disappoint! More to come, but here's the opening few turns of the battle.

"I want this wall six feet high, firing steps on the inside. Form details to commandeer more grain sacks and mealie bags, block that south entrance, keep 'em moving! Do you understand?"

Osrim Charz was in his element now that something needed doing. Even the ominous bat-like shadow that had suddenly darkened the sky above them hadn't bothered him. Some of the lads were even whistling.

"He don't want much does he 513?" muttered one of the younger sappers, nodding in his commander's direction.

His older and wiser companion shook his head,

"That he doesn't, 376, that he doesn't. Neither will those Orcs when they get here - apart from a good buffet to the 'ead"

One of the nearby Elves pricked up his ears and with a thinly disguised look of disgust turned to address the busy engineers,

"I say, along with elementary manners, don't you Dwarfs even have names? I thought you... people held great stock in what some dried up ancestor did centuries ago."

513 paused in his work and looked up at the Elf before turning back to 376,

"Just goes to show these high falutin folk with all their airs and graces don't know much, eh. Anyone can see we're a veteran unit - we'd be Longbeards soon if we didn't mind getting our hands mucky in such a manner as this."

The grizzled, old Dwarf again met the Elf's indignant glare with a steely gaze of his own,

"Were we to use our own names we'd be there all bleedin' day laddie, citing battle honours and titles gained in combat, . 513 is how many engagements I've seen - how many you done?"

All of a sudden the Elf archer seemed to have developed an almost obsessive interest in the state of his bow string...



Still reeling from the shock of the sight of a large number of Orcs massing in the hills on the far bank of the river, Brommedir's Bows and Osrim's Engineers soon sped into action.


Osrim and half his engineers rushed to the main entrance to the village and began building a defensive wall. Over by the makeshift Hospital, the remaining sappers began construction of a second line of defense.





Brommedir, along with five of his bowmen, bravely commandeered the 1st floor of the Inn, turfing out the malingerers (or wounded as the Druid Snart liked to call them).




The rest of his contingent joined their standard bearer in manning the West wall. Gripping their bows tightly, eyes scanning the horizon for movement, they prepared to spread out to form an effective firing line.

 


In the midst of all this hustle and bustle, the Druid, Snart was busy too,


"He breaketh the bow and snappeth the spear in sunder! He breaketh the bow and snappeth the spear in sunder!"


Cursing and muttering under his breath, the old drunk proceeded to shepherd his walking wounded out of the hospital. Bertolac, an injured soldier, and Fernbreth, a half blinded Elf, struggled under the load of a stretcher and its occupant.





The reason for the Druid's apparent madness soon became clear - with a great screech, preceded by an altogether far more obscene noise, F'yar and his wyvern descended from the sky in a tumult of beating leathery wings and dung!





Landing by the main entrance to the compound, F'yar looked on in satisfaction as Elves and Dwarfs scurried for covered.





Osrim's party beat a hasty retreat from the breastworks they had erected at the village's entrance, taking shelter in the shadow of the hospital.





Back in the centre of the village, the finishing touches were being put to the redoubt the rest of the sappers were preparing outside the hospital - despite Snart's rantings and ravings. Slightly hampered by the Dwarf's fortifications, the Druid oversaw another unconcious casualty stretchered out of the building.





Having been nudged frantically by his subaltern, Brommedir became aware of the commotion outside and looked on with distaste. Retreating in full view of the rest of the contingent was hardly going to inspire the men to acts of valor. He barked out orders and as one, his detachment put through the windows they were stationed by and took aim.





A hail of arrows sped from the hospital eliciting an indignant squawk from the wyvern. All six archers found their target, although those that had aimed at the beast saw their arrows clatter harmlessly to the ground. F'yar was not so lucky and let out a furious bellow at the arrow protruding from his leg.


Stung by this attack and suddenly realising his vulnerability in landing in front of a regiment of Elf archers, F'yar kicked and goaded his mount somewhat ignominiously back into the air. From this vantage point he wheeled aroud, seeking revenge.






Their defences prepared, the engineers outside the hospital retired inside - they had little to add in a fight with the monster that prowled the sky above them. Cleaning and checking their weapons and armour, they grimly waited for the inevitable Orc assault.


Osrim selected five of his best warriors and led them back to the village entrance - it would be unwise to leave it unguarded and hopefully the wyvern would be more concerned with eating those fool Elves who were doing their best to goad the beast with their arrows.





Still raving and occasionally waving his fist at the serried ranks of Elves on the West wall, Snart led his sorry looking party limping over towards the carts that made up part of the village's defences. The Elf bowmen shook their heads in bemusement at the madman's antics - he seemd to be leading his equally irrational patients in the direction the Orcs were approaching!





"Will you besmirch yourself and kill your brother? Ye shall not kill, so says the Law. You believe in the Law, dont you? Go to the others. Go to the others..."

One of the older Elves had had enough of the Druid's rantings, although conscious of the man's standing as a healer within the Grand League, couched his threat in genteel terms,

"Druid, be quiet now, will you? Theres a good gentleman. You'll upset the..."

His admonition ended in the beating of great wings and a terrible gurgle, as F'yars cruelly barbed lance tip burst through the unwitting Elf's chest. The Orc King had wheeled around and brought the wyvern into a long low swoop along the Elf line with eyes burning and a terrible cry on his lips. The next Elf in line had not the time to dive for cover as F'yar's attack raked across the wall. The burly Orc now struggled with the weight of two bodies, transfixed on the end of his spear. That is until the wyvern reached around, slobbering horribly...





Taken aback by the speed of the attack the Elves could do naught to fight back save duck behind their parapet, notch another arrow to their bowstrings and wait to redress the balance.

[DeafNala]

Now if they could form a choir...Dwarves of Harleck(sp) or some such thing.
GREAT REPORT/PHOTOS! Struggling with the early morning fog in my head & with much moving of lips, I thoroughly enjoyed the Zulu style report...the photos are inspiring. Breaking the Epic Battle into exciting installments is a stroke of genius...prevents writer's cramp also. WONDERFULLY WELL DONE!

[Mason]

 

Zulu has been on a couple of times in the last couple of weeks and I can never resisit watching at least a few minutes each time I pass by.
Plenty more great lines to come, methinks.
 

Great stuff, Thatsants!

I have been waiting for this final episode for some time, and the first installment certainly lives up to expectations.

Eagerly awaiting part 2.....

[Thantsants]

Thanks chaps!

Deafnala - you've got me thinking now along the lines of puns for Harleck - sure there's a good one somewhere...

I've got some of the other iconic lines from the film in mind but if there are any other requests? 

Splitting the whole thing into parts also helps me with the bewildering number of photographs that need editing and inserting in the right order, somewhere near the relevant part of the text! 

Mason - what? I must have missed it! Ah well, lost count of the number of times I've seen it but like you I always like to dip in a toe if its on.  Glad you're enjoying the show.

[Thantsants]

OK, time for the next thrilling instalment - about halfway now!

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

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

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

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

"He's counting your bows, sir."

"What?"

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

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

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



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


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

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

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

The Kwae Karr were coming...




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

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

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

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

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

"What do you suggest boss?"

With a hearty grin, Osrim continued,

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

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

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



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

Dwarves so hardy happily dreaming
Of honour, fame and foes a-screaming
Gird yourself with armour gleaming
Onwards to the fight

Dwarves so hardy stand ye ready
Hearts and shi-elds held so steady
Make the base Orc so to dread thee
with thy battle cry

Though the hills be swarming
The foe, his ranks are forming
Take a draught, at danger laugh
The brew your temper is a-warming
Dwarves so hardy be not tardy
Lest you miss the battle's fury
Wave your burnished axe heads 'fore ye,
Axes of the Dwarves!

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



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



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

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

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



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



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

[Thantsants]

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

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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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

Brommedir turned excitedly once more to Aydendorn

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

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

"That leaves only another 190..."



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



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



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

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

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

Get 'im lads!!"



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

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

"Now Bagrash, dammit, now!"

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

"Right then, that's more like it.

Onwards to Orc's Drift!"

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

[Timbor]

Awesome once again!  Were the orcs supposed to turn on the wyvern like that?

[Thantsants]

thanks and yep they were! I'm glad the lads who played the game went for it!

Each player gets a command sheet outlining the scenarios they take part in and forces at their disposal.

The commander's brief for the Kwae Karr Orcs includes an incitement to Magyar Ironfist (their chieftain) to do away with King F'yar after detailing a long feud between the two chieftains  -

... your own personal objective is to try to assassinate King F'yar himself. Who knows, if King F'yar should die at Orc's Drift - then perhaps King Magyar...?

There's a bit more on the background of the feud here -

http://teasgettingcold.blogspot.co.uk/2012/02/reaving-of-linden-way.html

[DeafNala]

GREAT BATTLE REPORT, COOL PHOTOS, & WONDERFUL OLD MINIS...all in all a truly cinematic experience! VERY WELL DONE!

[Mason]

Wonderful!
Just bloody wonderful!


The Zulu references are great, they do crack me up.
Really love your Dwarves of Harlech lyrics.
Quality!

Looking forward to the next installment.....

[phreedh]

Awesome! Thanks for taking the time to produce such quality texts to go with your great setup and photos!

[Thantsants]

Most kind chaps - and thanks for hanging on for the finale! 

Of course, as Phreedh has most observantly pointed out, I've spent the intervening months since playing this scenario carefully editing and honing the text to its current form... 

Mason - I think I may be running out of Zulu references so be prepared to see the remaining ones be stretched to breaking point to shoe-horn them in!

Thanks Deafnala - I did just about resist the widescreen/cinema effect on Picasa when I was editing the pics.

[Doomhippie]

I'll never tire of reading this thread. I have fond memories of Orcsdrift and (stupid me) never realized the connection with "Zulu" until now. That might have to do with the fact that I played Orcsdrift in the 1980's but never watched Zulu until this century. So the connection wasn't that obvious to me. Anyway, I'd like to join the chorus of folks who like your story and have said so. Nice pictures and a highly entertaining text make this thread a real blast. Can't wait for more!

[Thantsants]

Cheers matey - I can go one better than that. Having missed the original release, I was always puzzled at the illustration in the 3rd ed rulebook taken from the scenario pack and its mysterious caption, Orc's Drift. I thought it was a curious name and like you hadn't come across Zulu at the time.  

Glad you're enjoying the ride - here's the next bit. We're getting there...  


"Oooooozzz Yooooooooo?! Ooooooooooz Yoooooo?!"

 

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

 

"Well what are you waiting for? Come on! Come on!"

The strain was clearly telling on Brommedir, and Aydendorn, his adjutant, knew it.

"Stay with us, man! We need you, damn it! We need you (even if you are deaf as a bloody post...)"

Brommedir seemed to rally a little at the unexpectedly heartfelt outburst from Aydendorn,

"Those... bastards! They're taunting us!"

Now it was Aydendorn's turn to pale as he turned from his fraught commander and happened to glance out of the window. To the North was another Orc column.

"Erm, sir... you couldn't be more wrong. I think they're trying to find out who that lot are over there..."

_____________________________________________

Hagar Sheol, chieftain of the Severed Hand Tribe was in high spirits. This was a serious cause for concern for his cabal of advisers, lackeys and various hangers-on. As one they ducked and cringed as their great leader spoke,

"Yooz hidden the shiny stuff  good and proper 'den?"

Nervous looks were exchanged until one of the smaller Orcs was pushed forward,

"Erm, yez Boss... oof, ouch!"

An almighty clap on the back sent the hapless minion sprawling, while Hagar bared his teeth in a horrible parody of a wide and magnanimous grin,

"Good job, good job! Dat's wot I likes about yoo boys - yoo gets stuff done."



The others nodded and thanked their boss as meekly as possible, so as not to provoke another terrifying display of bonhomie. As luck would have it, Hagar's mood was not to remain as sunny as it was for long.

"Ooooooozzz Yoooooooo! Oooooooooozzzz Yoooooo?!"

As the ululating cry reached the ears of the Severed Hand, Hagar's grin curled into a snarl.

"Bloody Kwae Karrs - shud mind their own bloody business. Anyone can see 'oo we are. 'An dat reminds me - I got a bone or two to pick with dat prat on his fly'in worm. Could 'ave done with him on the other side of dat bridge to give us an 'and crumpin' dem stunties..."

One of his braver flunkies tapped him on the shoulder, duly ducked and gestured to the ruckus that was developing around the distant figure of F'yar and his wyvern,

"I think, Boss, that dere's only going to be 'is bones left, the way that lot are going on."

Hagar's grin returned, much to the chagrin of his little court,

"Well this day jus gets better an' better. No more King tellin' us wot to do. A load of stunties and poncy gits wanting a good bashin' - might even be time after to make some of dem nice and screechy later. Thens we gets to go 'ome wiv plenty of food, not forgetting our lovely loot and all!"

______________________________________________________

The Elf firing line once more opened up, but presented now with two large targets, they unwisely split their fire. A smattering of arrows fell on the Kwae Karr and Severed Hand columns, but again the the Orcs were literally saved by their tough skins.

 

The Druid Snart began making his way back to his wounded charges with his two new animal friends in tow, pausing only to shake his fist alternately at the equally incredulous Elves and Orcs.

 

Back over by the hospital, the more able patients had dragged their insensible comrades to the nearest cart in readiness for the Druid's return.

 

Hagar Sheol brandished his great battle axe at the defenders of Orc's Drift and his drummer sounded the advance. The main unit of warriors made straight for the barricade and the Elf archers who had dared target them.

 

Meanwhile, Grashak Kra bounded over the hedge with his hounds in a flanking maneuver, closely followed by the archers.

 

Glancing surreptitiously back down the road they had marched along, was the now unemployed F'yar Guard. So far the Kwae Karr's had left them alone and the sudden demise of their Overlord hadn't come as an absolute surprise - such was the way of Orcish society. Still, marching at the back of the mob who had just slaughtered the Orc who's face was plastered all over your shield wasn't a good way of getting ahead in life - or so Cole Scuttul thought,

"Don't like this. Don't like this at all..."

"Quit yer moaning - yer want to get us all slotted?"

Chim Neepees had had enough of Scuttul's whining and besides, that kind of talk could get an Orc killed.

"Anyway, we got to get us noticed by the new boss, woss 'e called, Magyar Ironfist - the Iron Guard sounds a bit better than the F'yar Guard  don't yer think?"

Indukt Shuneater suddenly piped up at the mention of their newly proposed name,

"Yer - dem things can get awful 'ot..."

The others looked at each other with the usual mix of incomprehension and derision - and kept marching.


 

The Kwae Karr archers began forming up along the river bank and prepared fire arrows.  Instinctively the F'yar Guard ducked as Bagrash gave vent to another fireball spell. This time directed at the hospital in Orc's Drift.

 

The magic missile soared overhead and shattered into a mass of sparks and dancing rivulets of flame as it engulfed the building.

 

Things were looking bad for the defenders of Orc's Drift and they weren't about to get better. Another cacophonous chorus of chanting assailed the air, this time from the North West. The Vile Rune Tribe had arrived.

 

Guthrum Mane paused and raised his misshapen snout a little higher in the air. He grunted in rudimentary pleasure as he sniffed hungrily - there was the hint of something tasty on the wind. Dwarf. Oh how he loved Dwarf - small, crunchy and quite often almost pickled from the inside out with lovely booze.

"Mmmmmmm, booze..."

Fangor Gripe instinctively lashed out at the giant with the flat of his sword.

"No booze till you done yer job, yer big lummox"

He knew what would happen if Guthrum got a whiff of the good stuff - his one ton key would find a nice warm corner somewhere and fall asleep.

The Chieftain cast his critical eye over the remnants of his once proud raiding party. They had made the Elves of  Kachas Pass  pay but at what cost. That F'yar had a lot to answer for - maybe he'd come to a sticky end, maybe Gripe would provide that sticky end, stick him like tht snivelling little worm, Silas Meel... Gripe roused himself from these pleasant daydreams and addressed his warriors,

"Now then lads, can yer smell 'em yet? That's right - more of them pointy eared gits down in that village. Who's for a bit more of the old cutting and poking then, eh? Besides, if yer wants to eat tonight we need to catch us some meat, and you know what ole' Guthrum here is like when he gets all famished and grumpy..."

The warriors of the Vile Rune Tribe didn't need the point elaborating further.

____________________________________________________

Dwarfs and Elves came piling out of the burning hospital, coughing and spluttering at the thick black smoke that belched out of the doorway. They quickly formed up in the redoubt the sappers had built, eyes wide and  knuckles white with anticipation.

 

Another great crash from the barricade made the nervous troops jump - Beli and Gymlet had succeeded in overturning the other cart. Elf and Dwarf glanced at each other waiting for the order to stop the vandalism but Brommedir seemed completely unaware of the dangerous gaps opening up in their defences.



The Druid Snart brought up the ox and harnessed it to the front of the cart - it was beginning to look like at least someone would escape with their lives!

 

The Elves manning the barricade let fly another volley and brought down another Orc warrior. Soon it would be time to cast aside the bow and meet scimitar with sword.

 

The great horde surged forward on all fronts, the Severed Hand racing for the road to be first into battle.

 

Grashak Kra and the archers continued their flanking move, slipping in the heavy wet clay of the ploughed field.

 

To their right the Vile Rune Tribe shambled forwards, whooping and thrashing the air with their spears.

 

A great whooshing noise, as of a swarm of angry bees, signalled the first answering volley of the Kwae Karr archers. Their flaming arrows arced over the teeming masses of Orc warriors to land amid the smoldering rafters of the hospital. Another gout of flame from Bagrash further fanned the flames licking up from the stricken building.

 

The Dwarf sappers, seeing that the Brommedir was unwilling or possibly even unaware of the holes in their outer defences, took action. Leaping over the redoubt wall they began furiously digging ditches to further frustrate the impending Orc assault.

 

Heaving the dead weight of Lars Breth into the waiting cart, Bertolac and Fernbreth wiped the sweat from their brow. They were nearly home and dry and only suffering slight pangs of guilt at leaving their brothers-in-arms behind. Well someone had to warn the city guard in Palesandre...

 

Their eyes stinging and weeping from the billows of acrid smoke pouring from the raging inferno that was now the hospital, the Elf archers again only stopped a single Orc in its headlong charge towards the wall.

 

With an almighty howl, Magyar Ironfist and his surviving warriors beat their weapons against their shields. Now the bloody business of revenge would begin. As one they surged forward and crashed into the thin red line.

 

Behind them the rest of the column continued maneuvering into position. The Kwae Karr archers and Bagrash moved forwards, evil eyes alert for any exposed defenders to pick off.

 

The Severed Hand were forced to make way for the remaining Kwae Karr column as it marched past with many a jeer and catcall, headed for the main entrance to the village.

 

Ozrim and his Dwarf sappers began to look somewhat exposed as the main Orc thrust became apparent. The Severed hand Archers and hounds sprang forward to link up with the Vile Rune Orcs, also bearing down on the Grand League's North flank.

 

Eyeing the approaching Orcs suspiciously, Ozrim turned to Oswen,

"Looks like the old Tusks of the Boar trick don't it. See the fracas over there by the wall - that's just a feint. Stopped those Elves from shooting up their columns hasn't it."

Heartened by the admiring looks offered by his sappers, Ozrim went on,

"Yes, well, you see here - this mob bearing down on us. They'll be one of the boar tusks - part of the main encircling movement that characterises a typical Orc attack. I'd wager a barrel of Bugman's Best that there'll be another "tusk" working its way round our extreme right flank - hope old Broomhead has got it covered. Jolly simple, eh?"

The looks of admiration had somewhat frozen on the faces of his comrades and were slowly being replaced with the pale mask of terror. A timorous voice piped up,

"Erm, sir - wouldn't that be jolly deadly too..."

[blacksmith]

this is pure epic! Fantastic!