Casting Shadows - Chapter 5
“Wherever your iron shod boots shall plant into the ashen earth, you will claim it as your land, never to be surrendered.” - Words attributed to Xarathustra.
The whip cracked upon the back of the enslaved ogre. It could not cry out with lips cruelly stitched together and had long given up on trying. It pulled hard on the lever and the portcullis rose.
Before them the land of Zorn Uzkul spread out: open and barren. The air was filled with swirling ash and the ground littered with rubble and rock of varying tones of grey and black. Dotted around were skulls of dwarf, greenskin and beast alike. It was what gave the place its name. The dry dusty climate preserved bone matter for centuries and many who fell here were left to carrion beasts, their bones picked dry.
Beshuk pushed an orc forward. The brute had its hands tied behind it and it begrudgingly lead the way. Experience had long taught him that it was better to have enslaved orcs ahead of him than behind.
The captives had not spoken since their night of standing before the brazen bull. Beshuk was unsure if this represented the breaking of their spirits or a suppressed thirst for vengeance that would show itself before this journey was done.
The five other orcs followed suit and marched after the first , occasionally kicked by Beshuk’s hooved feet or feeling his nine tailed whip upon their backs.
Behind the slaves, Mardurkarr lead the small column of ten infernal guard. The warrior had donned his splendid hat and trod on the plains of Uzkul in his large, hobnailed boots.
No fanfare of farewell saw them off. The portcullis slammed shut and they left in silence.
The journey to the mines was less than a day’s march on foot. Centaurs would cross the distance in a matter of a few hours but on foot, and carrying the barefooted orcish livestock, it would take them somewhat longer: perhaps six, if they were not waylaid in any way.
The path was well trod. Slaves would extract coal from the mines, and great black rocks from the adjacent quarry and would transport them, driven on by the whips of their masters to the tower. It had been this way since the days of Mardurkarr’s father. The slaves brought the stones and slowly the ziggurat grew. It was likely that even today they would cross paths with a few Dawi Zharr driving slaves at some point on their journey.
The route was not without risk however. Although deep in the territory of Enlil-Shazzar, the darklands were never truly tamed. Wild beasts, greenskins and other creatures would occasionally cross paths with a slave column and fighting would break out. Beshuk had fought with whip and blade many times on this path, but was reassured that if something went wrong today, the fireglaives of Mardurkarr’s guard would make short work of any foe.
The group made their way north following a path laid by a thousand footsteps over hundreds of years. The ground either side of the dirt road was uneven and covered in sharp jagged outcrops, whereas the ground under their feet was trampled flat and almost smooth by the marching of untold slaves.
As they walked, the wind never ceased, and the visibility remained poor. The sun, blocked from view, gave little indication of the time of day but Mardurkarr estimated that they had been travelling maybe a couple of hours; three at most. At this point, the jagged rocks began to rise on either side and the path followed a natural ravine with steep broken cliffs and rocky hills on either side.
Mardurkarr barked an order to his guard who fanned out and surrounded their commander, Beshuk and the livestock in a defensive pattern as they pushed into the ravine. If there was anywhere on their trail that they would be ambushed, this would be it.
Only a fool would pick such an obvious spot, Mardurkarr reassured himself. The defensive formation was more of a precaution than a necessity.
The boulder that rolled down the hill on their right glanced one of the infernal guard, knocking him to the ground, his weapon discharging in the air. All swung to the direction of the perceived attack, weapons aimed.
The stumbling warrior’s black hardened armour had saved him from broken bones or worse. Behind his metal face-plate the gunner grunted and swore, scrabbling to retrieve and reload his weapon.
The guards nearest, five in total, took up position , going to one knee and aiming their fireglaives up the hillside. The four warriors on the other side of the path aimed their weapons at the slaves, lest one of them take the opportunity to flee in the confusion of a battle.
The wind bellowed and ash swirled about them. The guard who had been knocked down limped to a firing position and looked out into the dusty air.
“A loose stone? Something natural?” Ventured Mardurkarr over his shoulder, mace in one hand a great brazen shield in another.
“It is not unknown,” said Beshuk, looking around with his one good eye, trying to make sense of what had happened.
The orcs looked nervous, fireglaives aimed at then, at point blank range and the warriors on both side of the road seemed hesitant during this moment of uncertainty.
The next few moments seemed to drag on interminably, with no sign of movement or attack. After a time, Mardakkur let his shoulders relax and raised a palm to give the sign for the warriors to stand down and for the march to continue. Weapons were raised and a few sighs of relief could be heard behind metal helmets.
Dull vibrations began to reverberate through the ground and soon, over the din of the wind footsteps could be hear: large and inhuman.
“Take up firing position,” hissed Mardakkur, “and you,” he said, turning to Beshuk and the four guard surrounding the orcs, “protect the animals.”
Immediately, all snapped back into position, fingers hovering over triggers.
The footsteps drew closer and small rocks tumbled down the steep hillsides to the right. Out of the ash clouds, two titanic shadows began to coalesce. Their stooped posture and slow clumsy movements made it clear what they were.
“Trolls!” Called Mardakkur, “Do not fire until you see the whites of their eyes and do not think them incapacitated when wounded. You must be sure that they are dead…”
Sure enough from the swirling gloom came two trolls. Both stood over three times the height of dwarf. One had elongated forearms that dragged on the floor as it strode. Its skin was like cobblestone and its repugnant face was twisted into a permanent gurn. Its brother was maybe a head shorter but much wider and flabby. In his hand he held a rudimentary club, fashioned from the bone of some massive Darklands beast. This troll’s face was more elongated and its slack jaw held open in permanent, idiotic stupor.
The trolls continued towards the dwarfs, who stood ready to open fire.
“Hold!” said Mardakkur.
The were closing the distance. The troll with elongated forearms paused a moment and scratched its behind with an enormous clawed hand. The wider monster with the bone-club overtook it slightly.
“Hold!” Mardakkur repeated.
They were almost down the hill now, and the troll with the club raised it above its head as it prepared to charge.
“Fire!” Mardurkkar bellowed and before him, the six glaives exploded in unison. There was a bright flash of light and a puff of acrid smoke. As the haze cleared, the troll stood before them, gormless, and maybe only ten feet away. It looked down to his enormous belly which now had a gaping wound through the middle of it. Thick black blood trickled to the floor.
The fireglaives began to reload (which was speedy work with well trained soldiers, wielding repeating handguns) as the troll fingered the hole in its stomach, trying to make sense of what had happened. As the pain receptors of its brain finally caught up, its expressionless face twisted into one of anger and it gave a bellowing warcry. As it shouted, the wound in its stomach seemed to stitch itself together, blood coagulating rapidly and flesh bubbling and forming anew.
“Fire!” The next order was given. The flash of gunpowder once again exploded but this time the troll barrelled through the oncoming hail of projectiles, completely oblivious to any damage it was sustaining.
The beast crashed into the gunners and knocked one flying with a swing of his club. He flew above the orcs and the dwarfs on the other side of the path and crashed into the opposite cliff face with a sickening crunch.
Before Mardurkkar, a swirling melee ensued. The five remaining soldiers took turns to stab and twist their glaives, just as he had trained them to do so.
The troll struggled to defend itself. He would turn towards one source of pain and instantly be stung by another as the comparitavely diminutive warriors took it in turns to attack. They concentrated on its legs, forcing it to constantly dance, stumble and trip to avoid further damage. Occasionally it would knock a warrior off his feet but there was enough of them to ensure that it would never be able to follow it up with a killing blow from its enormous club.
However, now the lanky troll was nearly upon them and Mardakkur knew that they would not be able to use their numbers as effectively, fighting two of these beasts.
He turned to Beshuk and the four guards on the left hand side of the path and reminded them, “protect the live-stock.”
Mardurkarr charged to engage the tall, thin troll bounding towards them with outstretched and grasping claws. He deflected a hand with his shield and brought his darkforged mace down upon its foot. He heard the cracking of bones as the mace hummed with dark energy and the runes upon it glowed.
He did not let up however, as he knew the resilience of trolls well, having fought their kind on the plains of Zharr before. Keeping momentum, he dropped a shoulder and attempted to topple the beast now that it had only one functional foot.
The monster swayed but managed to regain its footing and push back. Mardurkarr’s muscles burned as he fought against a much larger and stronger foe.
He knew that even now the bones within the troll’s broken foot would be re-knitting. And as the brutel began to heal itself, it seemed to find surer footing. Mardurkarr’s feet began to skid back as the troll began to over power him.
Once again, a great arm came down upon him and instinctively he ceased to push against the troll and raised the bronze shield in defence.
There was a feeling of great pressure as the weight of its enormous limb smashed down into the shield and Mardurkarr felt as if he would be pushed into the ground. He fought back but his left arm was wavering. If his strength were to fail, he was sure to be crushed.
Suddenly, the pressure abated and instead, was replaced by a new sensation. Mardurkarr felt a tug on his shield and realised that three taloned fingers had now wrapped themselves about it. There was a sudden force that threatened not to squash him, but to lift him off his feet.
Mardurkarr quickly decided to let go of the shield which was then flung spinning into the air like a Reman discus. The distance that it flew and the force with which it was thrown, most likely meant that the decision to let go of the shield had just saved his life.
As the trolls arm was raised skyward and its attention turned towards the bronze disk sent flying far along the path, Mardurkarr held his mace with two hands and swung it into the patella of the monster. It gave a wail of anguish and crumpled to one knee. As this happened, the warrior took a step back, lest he be crushed by its falling weight, and then swung the darkforged weapon upwards into its gruesome face.
The troll’s lower jaw was a ruin, its tusks piercing through the roof of its mouth. It slumped forward and fell onto the dirt path, dark blood pouring from its face.
Mardurkkar knew better than to leave it be. He stood over the monster’s body and brought his mace down upon its skull. After five or six strikes its head was no more: replaced with a mess of smashed cranium, pulped brain matter and a spreading pool black ichor.
Finally daring to stop and breathe, Mardurkarr turned to see that his companions were close to dispatching the heavy set creature who had first charged down the hill.
Suffering no doubt from extreme blood loss and covered in more wounds than even a troll’s regenerative abilities could manage, it staggered about drunkenly and then slumped to the floor. The warriors immediately went to work on its body, severing its head from his shoulders.
They had lost one warrior. The solider lying against the opposite hill looked unharmed at first glance. But within his iron armour, his body broken. Another guard was injured, his leg struck by the boulder at the opening of the conflict, but he would live and more importantly, he would be able to march.
The orcs had not budged an inch since the battle was met and still stood there in silence, fear etched across their expressions and four fireglaives aimed at their bodies.
Beshuk, removed something from a pouch upon his belt. It a flask of liquid. He poured a little on both of the troll’s bodies.
“Naptha,” he said to Mardurkarr, who nodded knowingly. He had heard talk of trolls regrowing heads, occasionally even sprouting two in the place of one. They would take no chances.
The band continued their journey, two enormous smoking carcasses burning behind them and one ruined corpse of an infernal guard, armour stripped from him and laying dead on the road in service to his prophet.
Tradition would have him buried beneath his family house, somewhere within the walls of Bezall. There would be rites and prayers to The Dark Father. But to linger here would not be wise decided Mardurkarr. Troll herds rarely consisted of only two beasts and it was likely that others may be close by.
The old ways would have to give way to pragmatism once again. He felt Enlil-Shazzar, the great traditionalist and his one time teacher silently judge him from afar. The dead warrior would be left to the elements. Another skull upon the plains of the Great Skull Land.
Mardurkarr called out to his warriors, marching once again in a column behind the slaves, emerging now from the ravine, “You gave no ground this time and fought well with the glaive. Your honour is restored.”
He estimated that the mines were only a few hours away.