Down in the Dungeon by A.J. Walker

Ghosts of the Crimson Claw

The wood elf slid silently through the thick undergrowth, moving slowly so as not to make the slightest noise. His uniform of emerald green and wood brown blended with the scenery. A golden griffin embroidered on the shoulder of his shirt showed that he was a member of the Overlord's Forest Guard.

He remained all but invisible as he crept under bushes and around trees, using the lush foliage of Grimwood to its full advantage. He crept up to a small group of humans waiting anxiously in a thicket.

"About sixty," he whispered. "Camped just over the next ridge to the north. A few archers as sentries, the rest crowded together."

His four companions nodded. One was dressed like the elf. The griffin patch at his shoulder was circled in crimson to denote a member of the Overlord's Rangers. He was a wiry man, as hard and resilient as a young sapling. Next to him crouched an older man in flowing green robes. He had long flaxen hair and a full beard of the same hue. His wise eyes spoke of a man of learning, and a corded necklace of mistletoe showed him to be a druid. Behind him sat a thinner man, also in robes. Instead of the forest green worn by the other two, his were of sky blue. He had a far away look in his eyes, as if he was listening to something that he could barely hear. Every now and then his lips would move to form words, but no sound came from his throat.

Next to this man stood the fourth--a burly human with piercing gray eyes and a deep scar running across his jaw. He wore the uniform of the Overlord's regular army. Instead of the leather jerkins worn by the others, he had on a full suit of scale mail. Iron greaves protected his legs. His left arm gripped a large wooden shield. His red robe, laced with silver thread, showed him to be a Tenththrong leader, a commander of fifty men. His name was Garand. Being of common stock, he had no family name worth recording. Unlike many officers in the Overlord's ranks, who had bought their positions with their family's influence, Garand had earned his rank with his steadiness of mind and the strength of his sword arm. It was to this man the elf spoke.

The officer furrowed his brow in thought before replying. "Welwyn, take the other three elven scouts and make your way up to the ridge a bit to the east. You will provide cover for our assault. I'll take four squads of my men over the ridge and attack. The fifth will work their way around behind them and cut off their retreat." He turned to the other men.

"Marsilio, Dranath, and Iamblichus," he addressed the ranger, mage, and druid respectively, "You will position yourselves on the western edge of the ridge and provide crossfire. Marsilio, use your bow. Dranath and Iamblichus, use whatever spells you deem necessary, but don't use too much power unless we run into trouble. I don't want you exhausted by the first attack, as we might run into reinforcements."

The men nodded and slipped off to take their positions. The officer crept back a few hundred yards to a small glade where fifty soldiers crouched. Like him, all were heavily armed and armored. Each wore a full shirt of chainmail, high leather boots, and an open steel helm. They all carried a short, broad-bladed spear, well balanced for throwing and stout enough for close combat. Each also carried a sword and dagger sheathed at their sides. Their shields bore the golden griffin insignia of the Overlord.

A few whispered instructions to the soldiers were enough for them to spring into action. A squad of ten men hurried off into the woods, working their way to the northeast in a long circle that would bring them around the ridge and behind the camp the elf had mentioned. The other forty broke into units and lined up a spear's length apart. Then, with a silence one would not think possible for so many armored men, they crept to the north.

A few minutes later, the officer peered cautiously over the ridge. Barely forty yards beyond, he spied several campfires. Around them huddled the hunched, dark forms of orcs wearing a variety of armor, from boiled leather breastplates to crudely fashioned chainmail. Several drank from wineskins, their toothy mouths and cracked lips sucking greedily from the spouts. Some sharpened their weapons--cruel scimitars and heavy, spiked maces. Another group turned a large side of meat over a spit. The officer could smell the pungent odor of burning flesh even at a distance. He squinted and examined their meal. The meat looked about four feet long, a bit big for an otter and too thin to be a boar, he thought. It wasn't a deer, either. It didn't look like any animal he knew. It took him a moment to figure out why.

Whatever it was, it had once walked on two legs.

The officer scanned the nearby woods. He could pick out a few orc sentries armed with bows hiding in the underbrush. One had been positioned on the ridge along which his men now formed up. That orc lay a few feet behind him, his throat slit.

The officer looked to his left and right. He couldn't see his companions on either flank, but he knew they'd be in position. For five years he had been patrolling these woods at the edge of the Overlord's demesne, and they had never let him down. He turned and gave a signal to his men. The first unit of ten men crept to the crest of the ridge.

"Go!" he barked.

As one man, they rose and charged down the ridge.

A sentry gave a shout and the orcs sprang for their weapons. Just then the officer heard a twanging of bowstrings from eastern edge of the ridge. Four orcs dropped to the ground. His elven scouts had taken first blood. Turning to the left, he could see the ranger Marsilio rise and add his fire to the fray.

Those who witnessed it scarcely believed that only five archers could be responsible for the hail of arrows that rained down on the orc camp. The elves and the ranger were all expert marksmen, and as fast as they were accurate. More orcs fell, clutching at the feathered ends of shafts buried deep in their chests and throats.

The officer called for the second unit to rise and charge. The first unit, now at the bottom of the ridge and only twenty yards from the camp, paused and threw their spears. The heavy points bit deep into the orc flesh, passing through their victim's boiled leather armor. The soldiers drew their swords and formed a line.

As the second unit of ten men charged down the ridge, they too paused to launch a volley of spears before joining their comrades.

The officer called up the third and fourth units and joined the last in its charge. Each threw their spears and assembled at the bottom of the ridge, forming a line twenty wide and two deep. Each soldier crouched behind the protection of his shield, keeping close to the man on either side to make a solid wall of wood. Beams of sunlight pierced the thick forest canopy to shine on fifty golden griffins.

The camp was in chaos. Half the orcs lay dead or dying. The remainder ran to and fro, hurriedly snapping up weapons and donning shields and helms. Their leader, a huge creature wearing a necklace of human teeth and a robe of scalps over his steel breastplate, tried to restore order. An arrow glanced off his spiked helm and he shouted for the orc archers to return fire on the ridge.

None answered. They had been the first to fall.

The Overlord's soldiers advanced at a slow run, careful to keep formation. The orc leader beat his men into a rough line to face them.

A bolt of lightning flashed from the ridge and the orc leader keeled over, a smoking hole the size of a man's head in his chest.

His lackeys looked about to run. Another officer, in ragged plate armor that looked like it had been cannibalized from half a dozen slain knights, shouted for them to hold their ground.

They shouted a slogan in unison that Garand couldn't make out. It wasn't one of the usual war-cries, more like an invocation to one of their base gods. Their line held. Garand's eyebrows arched in surprise. Orcs rarely showed such resilience.

As the orderly line of soldiers advanced on the double, a flurry of vines and creepers sprang up from the ground and entwined a dozen of the orcs. Some were jerked off balance and pulled to the ground. Others had their arms tied to their sides and looked helplessly at the line of advancing soldiers.

The shield wall crashed into orcs and smashed through their formation. The orcs put up a brief resistance, but the fight soon became a slaughter. A couple of soldiers went down, but the men behind immediately took their places. The shield wall held firm.

The orc in plate mail tried to rally his troops, but the few survivors were already fleeing. Snarling, he leapt at Garand. The creature's two-handed sword swung in a swift arc that would have cleaved a lesser man in two, but the officer dodged it at the last moment.            

Garand came back with a quick flurry of blows. The orc couldn't parry effectively with the giant blade, and within moments his armor was battered and dented. Blood welled from half a dozen shallow wounds.

Roaring with anger, the orc brought down his sword with all his might. The officer ducked and came under his guard, running him through.

The orc choked and staggered, gazing wide-eyed at the blade lodged in his belly. He coughed up blood, stumbled back a few feet, and fell dead.

The retreating orcs fared no better. As they headed for the woods, the reserve unit sprang up before them, cutting off their retreat. The soldiers hurled their spears in unison and the remaining orcs fell.

Garand pulled his sword out of the orc lieutenant's chest and wiped it on the grass. He ordered two units to scout the woods for survivors.

Walking over to the spit, he looked at the hunk of meat sizzling over the fire. His face darkened. He called two of his men to his side.

"Pull that thing off and give it a decent burial," he ordered.

Then he turned and watched as his friends made their way down from the ridge.

"Dranath," he called to mage. "I thought I told you not to use any major spells."

The thin man grinned. "I didn't want you to think I was getting lazy," he joked. "Besides, with that big metal breastplate he wore, I just couldn't help sending a lightening bolt his way."

The officer couldn't help but smile. "Just save your strength for when we're in real trouble," he said.

"If I did that, I'll never get a chance to show off," Dranath laughed.

The ranger Marsilio, busy retrieving his arrows from dead orcs, interrupted their banter. "This group seemed more organized than most," he said thoughtfully. "They actually listened to their officers."

"You're right," Iamblichus the druid replied. "They did show some formal training."

"Fat lot of good it did them," the officer grunted.

Garand went over to the line of orcs still tied down by the druid's spell. A soldier was busy slitting their throats. The officer stayed his hand. "Leave a couple," he said. He crouched down and spoke to an orc who lay stretched out on the ground, all but invisible under a thick mesh of imprisoning grass. "What tribe are you?" he asked in orcish.

The creature didn't even look at him.

The officer punched him in the mouth. "When I talk, you answer. What tribe are you from and why are you in this part of Grimwood?"

The orc spat, but said nothing.

Garand drew his dagger and placed it against his throat. "Last chance," he growled.

The orc looked away.

Bright blood splashed on the grass.

Garand went to the next one. "Perhaps you will be more talkative," he said.

The orc let out a curse and sneered. He, too, would not talk and died under the knife.

Marsilio raised his eyebrows and whistled. "Interesting," he murmured....