Siege State

Tom’s breath flowed evenly; in and out. His footsteps drummed a steady, even beat upon the ground. With Rosa to his right, and Val to his left, they ran. Nearly one hundred Idealists ran with them, many familiars proudly alongside. Sesame charged with Tom, his new armour glinting softly in the sun.

Grim faced, but steady, they went on. For some minutes now, the orc army had been visible, crowding at the walls as a great mass. They howled, they brayed, they screamed, and the tumbling, tumultuous uproar of it all was nearly a physical force pushing upon them.

The great walls of Wayrest, that had stood for a thousand years and more, were being punished. The ancient shield enchantments were visible constantly now, a shimmering, solid curtain, wrapping the wall like an old woman pulling a cloak tight against a chill.

The enchantments had been utterly overwhelmed near their base, and orcs had rushed forward to claw and scrabble at the wall itself. The architects and enchanters of days gone had been old hands at their trade, seasoned by the first, endless struggle against the orcs. The great, curtain shield enchantments were segmented, and though the orcs had broken through the bottom, the panes above were holding. For now.

The gap was enough for orcs to manoeuvre siege ladders through, carrying them horizontally, and then extending them up, up the wall, like the wriggling of spindly spider legs against a tree, seeking. Time and again, as the Hunters ran, they saw the Guards knock them down, throw them off, burn them, destroy them, and still, always, there were more.

The two siege orcs were at the vanguard now, each with a massive shorn tree as a club. They flexed, and even from such a distance Tom could see the muscles in their backs and shoulders knot and coil, bringing the lengths of solid timber around to crash into the shield with prodigious force. With every strike, the upper panes of the shield flared, hissing and spitting their displeasure at the abuse. They would not hold for much longer.

As soon as they fell, the siege orcs would be free to assault the wall itself. Tom didn’t know whether they would hammer on the wall with their tree-clubs, or whether they would drop back to sling their huge boulders at the wall-top defenders, but neither outcome was pleasant.

Already, the siege orcs were weathering skills from the Guards atop the wall. Idealist orcs near them were covering them with shields of Shadow, and Earth, and more, blasting skills from the Guards out of the air with strikes of Fire and Water before they could land on their living siege engines.

Tom was not sure how much difference it would have made were they unprotected. The few skills that made it through to strike them seemed to do no appreciable damage. The chunks and gouges blown into their red hides streamed with blood, but quickly seemed to close. The siege orcs either had massive regeneration, or one of the orcs had manifested a healing skill. It could well have been both.

The rearmost orcs had seen the approaching Hunters, and the two Chieftains and Idealists commanding them were roaring orders.

Turning troops to meet a flanking charge was a manoeuvre that most human armies would struggle with, unless they were exceedingly well trained. The orcs were the complete opposite of a well-trained force, but they did have one thing most human armies lacked: an insatiable need for violence. Upon seeing there was a quicker way to sate that need than waiting for their fellows to breach the wall, a truly daunting number of orcs had turned to face them.

Tom was not so worried about the chaff. The two chieftains, and their accompanying Idealists, were the real threat. At a glance, there had to have been three times as many of them as the Hunters charging at them. There was no way they could encompass them all in the blast from Scriber’s device. They would just have to hope however many were left over were enough for them to handle.

The Hunters ran, picking up speed. Tom pulled several poisons from his spatial storage and downed them. He savoured the feeling, like electricity running through his muscles, as Sweet Suffering activated. They were the last of Harvey’s stock, and he had been saving them.

Tom began to pull slightly ahead of the rest of the group, and lowered his speed slightly to match them. A few moments later, more strange feelings began to wash over him: peppermint coolness, strange, honeyed relaxation, a vibrating tightness to his skin, and more. Some small blue lights popped into being and began to circle him, and his footsteps suddenly began to throw off violet ripples as they struck the ground.

The other Hunters were activating their buffs too, spreading as much power to their comrades as they could. Tom felt like an avenging angel of Goddess, so great was the power. He would have felt more confident if a similar situation had also not been playing out amongst the Idealist orcs.

In the distance, the concussive sound of explosions flared from behind the wall. Whether they were from the civil war, or Idealist orc saboteurs, they could not be a good thing.

They were close now. Closer still. Tom grit his teeth, bringing his spear from his spatial storage. He picked an Idealist from those bracing themselves to meet their charge. Someone behind him roared, a glorious, primal sound, full of exultation. Tom found the beast within himself and let it free, joining his roar to theirs. A hundred Idealists followed suit.

Even against a backdrop of fifty thousand orcs screaming and dying and fighting, their warcry stood proud. For a moment, the orcs looked hesitant. The Hunters were less than thirty feet away.

Then one of the chieftains lifted a hand. Red, glowing chains burst from the ground, wrapping legs and torsos, snaking all about them, hundreds and hundreds of them. The charge was brought to an abortive halt.

The chieftain strolled forwards, the expression on its piranha-like face a horrific parody of a smile. On one of its shoulders it bore a puckered scar, and it wielded a massive, silvery hammer. Markhart’s hammer.

Cold realisation filled him. This was the same orc he had clashed with so long ago, the same one that had pursued him through the deep like a rabbit. And now here it was again, barring his way. Idealists all around him struggled against their bonds. Tom snarled, but retained enough presence of mind to shoot Val a quick message through his wisp.

Device ready?

As it’ll ever be. Ready when you are.

The orc chieftain was speaking. Tom already had his wisp in front of him as it began to translate.

Stupid dogs! it gloated. You think we are all just beasts, and yet you run into our traps time and again, just like the prey you are. You have so much Pride to work with, and it will-

Fuck. That. Tom thought, and cast Hush on it.

Many things happened at once. The chieftain’s eyes went wide with surprise, and the chains holding the Hunters stuttered and collapsed.

Val raised the device, and Tom saw her say a whispered prayer. She activated it, and the scrawled enchantments on its surface flashed green. A ripple exploded from its front, quickly hitting the orcs, and spasmodic flashes of green light began to pulse from their eyes and mouths.

Those in the front rows toppled backwards as if struck by a great force. Those behind slumped, clawing at their brethren to stay upright, and failing, as their supports collapsed along with them.

In a cone starting at Val, orcs tumbled like carefully set dominos, extending deep into the army. The pulse didn’t reach quite all the way to centre, and to the Smith, but the orcs making up the difference would be negligible to an Idealist assault force.

Only the chieftain was left standing, although standing was perhaps too strong a word. The massive orc had fallen to one knee, groaning silently as it fought to overcome both the Silence debuff and the paralysis.

Tom was loath to give it the chance to recover. He stepped up to the chieftain, intending to strike it down. The vicious creatures deserved no respect. He would kill it like a rabid animal.

He never got the chance. As he thrust forward to skewer it through the neck, it shrugged off the last of its paralysis and rolled away. It came to its feet with a soundless snarl, raising its hammer.

Tom couldn’t deny a small surge of excitement. Many times, since his escape, he had replayed that fateful fight against the orcs in his head. He had wondered how differently things would go, had he the same training, the same experience, the same skills that he did now. It was time to find out.

As Tom and Sesame and the chieftain circled each other, the Hunters surged into the gap. Some third of their number stayed to hold it, contesting with the Idealist orcs to either side of it that had only been partially struck by the device, or hadn’t been struck at all. The plan was for the strike force to rotate as they were stopped by any appreciable number of orcs, holding their attention, and allowing the Hunters behind them to forge further inwards towards the Smith.

Tom saw Rosa and Val and his mother charging in, but could devote no more attention to them as he deflected a forceful strike from the orc’s hammer. He would have to trust that they would be okay. He focused on the matter at hand.

The chieftain rained blows upon him, far quicker than he should have been able to, given the size of the hammer. It seemed almost a child’s toy in his hands. The chieftain had grown substantially since last they had met, becoming taller and significantly more well muscled.

But if the chieftain had grown, then Tom had too. He had manifested eight more skills, not including his aura, since last they fought, and was now well-rested, well-fed, and equipped with incredible weapons and armour. Compared to their last fight, it was like night and day.

Tom flowed around the strikes easily. Previously, he had just had his training to rely on, coupled with his burgeoning Idealist physique. Now, he had tempered those skills against beasts of all kinds in the Deep, and more importantly, against hundreds of other orcs. The increased speed and agility and strength, the increased reflexes and mental acuity that came from being an Idealist, had been well and truly integrated.

Tom revelled in the moment. This chieftain was not equal to him. Quick as they were, his hammer blows seemed telegraphed. He avoided them easily. But he had to resist his darker nature. He could not toy with it, not when the others were putting their lives on the line to kill the Smith. He manoeuvred, watching for his moment. There! He sidestepped, bringing his spear around and-

His spear was pushed, just slightly downwards. Tom tried to backpedal, to avoid the backswing of the deadly hammer now flying his way. Another force pushed on his back, stopping him.

The hammer slammed into his shoulder, crushing it. His spear dropped from fingers that no longer worked. How had this happened? The chieftain had the Forge, but these skills didn’t seem like something from that. Was another Idealist interfering in their fight? The smug grin on the chieftain's face made him think otherwise. The skills were his. Hush had obviously come off cooldown, and the chieftain must have gained another Ideal.

The huge orc raised his hammer overhead, preparing to strike Tom into the dirt like an obstreperous nail.

Instead, the orc vaulted forward, surprise flashing on its face before it was sent tumbling forwards overtop of him. Sesame stood over him, a mass of dark fur and dark mail jingling on his belly. In the distance, more muffled explosions could be heard.

Tom rolled to his feet, agony lancing through his shoulder. How had he been so stupid? He shook his head. He couldn’t keep underestimating these orcs. Now he had to make a choice, and he had to do so quickly.

He made his decision, and several of Sere’s bodies swooped at him, impacting him, and disappearing as though they’d been subbed. Immediately, pain and relief began to flow as the bones in his shoulder began to reknit themselves, aligning and straightening and healing with pops and crunches. He flexed it experimentally, and found it in proper working order. It had cost him almost a third of Sere’s bodies though, and he could ill afford to lose them.

He flicked his spear back into his grip, and faced off against the chieftain again. He had to be more careful. The amount of damage it had transferred through his new armour and into his body was worrying. If he had to guess, it had Force, or something similar, now.

He separated from Sesame, each of them circling in opposite directions to the chieftain again. The chieftain focused on Tom, not seeming particularly worried about the massive bear at his back. It made Tom leery of other skills the chief might have up his sleeve. He would have to take this slowly, wear him down, not make any other mistakes. The style of fighting was how Tom excelled, after all. He prayed that Val and the others would be okay. He needed to do this right.

The chieftain tried to reengage him, and each time now, Tom stayed outside his range, jabbing it with his spear, drawing small wounds on its extremities, never letting it close. Whenever it tried to charge him, Sesame would threaten it from behind. He cast Agony on it, every time it came off cooldown, but the tiny damage the skill gave seemed to make no difference. Tom wasn’t too bothered. It would begin to tell, sooner or later.

Eventually, the orc seemed to realise Tom’s game, and must have calculated that the odds when the fight was dragged out were not in its favour. It began to throw in more skills. When Tom leaned into a jab, a glowing red chain snaked out and wrapped around his spear, trying to drag him off balance and towards it.

Tom was ready for it, and channelled Silence mana through the weapon. The chain lost cohesion and faltered, freeing his spear. He rolled out of the way of the hammer, and Sesame raked its back with his claws, causing the orc to stumble.

Fury kindled in its eyes as it stared Tom down. It didn’t just want to kill him, he was sure of it. It needed to. In a flash of insight, Tom understood. In their brutal, primitive culture, the failure to kill an enemy was weakness. Weakness would be the antithesis of these chieftains’ psyches.

They clashed again, and again, neither side doing much damage to the other. Tom took blows from invisible strikes at odd and unexpected angles, the chieftain leveraging its new Ideal. They brought him closer to more debilitating strikes from its hammer, but because he refused to overcommit again, they didn’t land.

Tom was saving his next Hush. He had to be sure he could finish the chief off before it expired. More and more trivial wounds began to build on the orc: Tom and Sesame’s own attacks, Echo reflecting damage, Misery transferring it, and whisper tags building and exploding. His aura was steadily wearing it down too, and Tom could see it getting slightly slower as the fight wore on. The balance was nearly in his favour. Nearly…

Just as he was about to commit to Hush, a resounding, horrific shriek reverberated around the battlefield. Tom and the chieftain both stopped, momentarily shocked. They took distance, and Tom found that the same was true of the entire army. They were uncertain. Tom didn’t blame them; the shriek had been titanic.

He glanced about, thinking it must have been one of the siege orcs, when his attention was ripped upwards, to the wall. An enormous shape swooped above it, outwards, above the army.

A blood dragon. And it looked angry.