Cro-Magnon (Abandoned)
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Farewell
The retreat was well underway. The orcs had turned their backs as soon as the first cavalrymen were sighted. They shouted and roared and squealed as though the very daylight was burning their flesh, the sweeping wind carrying their pathetic cries straight to the ears of the enemy.
Away from the the teeming rabble, their warlord merely stood and watched the battlefield, waiting.
In the distance a noble figure impatiently raised its sword, shining magnificently in the dying light of the day. Immediately, the surrounding lines of cavalry eased into their advance, eager to crush the cowardly horde so terrified by their appearance. The muted rumble of hooves grew and grew until it was a thunderous roar, their armoured steeds now racing across the plains. Flags and banners fluttered proudly in the wind, and the earth itself trembled beneath them.
The time had come.
The growling boom of the black horn cut across the battlefield like a knife. The warlord watched as the orcs instantly turned, formed up and closed ranks. Where there had been a streaming mass of cowards only seconds before, there was now a bellowing, bristling beast, all spears and fangs, braced to face the charge. Not a moment too soon.
With a crash like the breaking of the heavens, the charging knights were upon them. Horses cried, shields shattered and screams of pain and rage engulfed the field. Bodies were violently flung through the air to be lost amidst the chaos. Across the line, each warrior painted the bloody madness of war with sword, spear and lance.
The knights' momentum now lost, the orcs now surged forwards to isolate each man before he could disentangle from the mass. They were swarmed by the heaving tides, pulled from their steeds by powerful hands and poached by cruel spears seeking the gaps in their armour while their wounded steeds buckled beneath them.
Within minutes, the struggle was over. Only a handful lived to retreat across the field. The glorious charge had been utterly broken.
The warlord once again sounded the horn, to the exultant cries and roars of his orcs. Victory was theirs, but the battle was not quite done.
Surrounded by his dead or dying bodyguard, Lord Uldir was slumped against the body of his fallen horse, blood dripping from his mouth. The light of recognition flared in his eyes when he looked upon the young orc emerging from the ranks. It was the face of an orc his scouts and spies had recently etched into his memory; a name that shadowed his fitful dreams. Shogun no Yari.
“You...” he coughed. “I should have expected... your honourless tricks. Go on, then, spear me. Finish me, you savage,” he spat, his face bitter with resentment.
The surroundings orcs laughed and jeered, urging their leader to stick the old man who had hounded their people so relentlessly for years. The blood of hundreds, even thousands of their kin was upon his hands.
But the warrior did not move. “Stand and fight,” he demanded.
Lord Uldir bared his teeth. He groaned and snarled as he rose. It was abundantly clear to the laughing orcs that his arm and leg were broken, yet still he managed to stand in defiance. His pale and shaking face spoke only of cold resolve even here, when his death was all but certain.
The warlord flared his nostrils, his gaze never leaving the crippled commander. “You do not face death like a dog.” He briefly glanced away, over the field to where his few remaining knights had regrouped. They seemed to be preparing to charge once more. “And your men are loyal.”
“They will see you cut asunder. Even if I do not,” said Lord Uldir calmly.
Even the warlord laughed this time.
“There is no honour in killing a wounded dog,” he growled. “I will show you the mercy that you could not show our children, Uldir Child-slayer. Fetch him a horse!”
The orcs growled and grumbled, though none loud enough to draw their lord's attention. After he was stripped of his armour and clothing, and bound at the hands and feet, a skittish warhorse was dragged to the Lord's feet, across which he was gracelessly thrown like a hog.
“These orcs are mine. My people. We are leaving your cursed lands for the south, where we will forge our own kingdom.”
From somewhere near the horse's behind came Lord Uldir's fuming response. “I will follow you. You and your filthy creatures, you are nothing. All the free and good people of Illyria will remember the day I purge the last of your kind from this world. You'll see!”
“As I had hoped,” the orc snarled. “Go now to your people. See to your wounds, gather your men, and then come find the death that awaits you in the south.”
With a mighty blow, the horse was sent packing towards the waiting knights. As Lord Uldir looked back across the field, he saw his family's tattered golden standard raised high in the air, its flowing weave stained red with the blood of his men. And beneath it, the ominous silhouette of the Warlord of Spears.