Blood Bath at Orc's Drift

[Thantsants]

Here's the reports from all the scenarios for Orc's Drift in one place and in order - enjoy!

The Battle of Kachas Pass


Erdolas gazed out of the window, brooding over the mountain wastes that loomed to the North. A fitting picture to suit his mood he thought mirthlessly. The Elf captain continued to stare into the distance impassively as a series of emotions rushed through his mind like the storm clouds that scudded across the sky. He didn't like the way things were shaping up - first the disgusting Half-Orc spy had been captured, trying to sneak back up into the mountains with goodness knows what information on the Grand League's already beleagured armies. The foul creature had gone on to taunt the Elves with veiled threats that an Orcish war party was headed their way.

But then again Erdolas felt a thrill that the time for action was perhaps at hand. For too long had his self imposed exile in this dreary hill fort  dragged on. It was more than time for him to find that glorious death he had been searching for. That glorious death that would silence the whispers of scorn and outrage his fellow Elves had rained down on him at the discovery of his illicit and adulterous affair with the Queen of Fendal Forest.

Well the die had been cast. Erdolas had sent his Lieutenant, Herndil Merl, out with ten archers to search the Pass for intruders. He half hoped his trusty officer would return with good news; that the Orcs had been just a raiding party and easily routed. He half hoped for hordes of the enemy to come pouring out of the mountains and for death amongst the bloody ruin of those he had slain himself...


The lone watchman cast his eyes about miserably. All those wide open spaces, great slabs of rock, towering pinnacles - it was enough to send any Elf mad. He contented himself with watching the wind tearing at the few sad trees clinging to the ground near the entrance to the Pass. It was then that his sharp ears caught the jingle of mail above the gale's roar - was there movement in the Pass?

​

Soon the rattle and  scrape of ill-tended wargear was joined by guttural snarls and voices as the rocks seemingly came alive with a green tide. The Vile Rune Tribe slithered its way down the slopes of the Pass towards the garrison.

Fangor Gripe, Chieftain of the Vile Rune, ran a course tongue over yellowed teeth as his band picked their way slowly through the screes on the left hand side of the pass. Impatience and anticipation coursed through his veins as he yearned to hear the cries of the wounded and dying. Yet he would have to be sly - should the thrice-accursed dog, Silas Meel, escape during the battle there was no doubt that he would run to his masters in the Kwae Karr tribe. And if that were to happen then word of Gripe's refusal to fight at Fendal Plain during the Goblin Wars last year would get out. Fangor growled savagely, causing a young savage to loose his footing in the rocks - there was no way some Half-breed scum was going to give him the chop...

Meanwhile, the alarm had been sounded and Erdolas and what was left of his garrison hurried out into the compound. Erdolas led a section of his archers to the East wall to keep watch on the approaches to the Pass. Another section of archers headed for the storehouse to check on their prisoner - disgusting as he was the Half-Orc was too valuable to be allowed to fall into enemy hands. The remaining archers went out of the main gate to keep watch on the crossroads.

The Orcs continued to make their way down from the Pass - the Tribe spltting like some vile Hydra, as bands of Orcs passed to the left and right of the small wood in their way. Smoke now marked their advance as one unit paused to light fire brands.

Now aware of the danger Erdolas barked out his orders - a flight of arrows soared into the sky but only one found its mark. Unfortunately for the Elves the brutish creature shrugged the missile away and strode on.

Peering through the cracks in the woodwork, Silas Meel saw that his chances of escape were quickly diminishing as his guard detail got closer and closer. A horrible grin smeared itself across his face as the door lock finally failed. It got wider as he savoured the looks of shock on his captors' faces - and jumped the fence! However, he was not home and dry yet as the third detachment of archers turned and petled down the road towards him!

The hillside seethed as the Orcs of the Vile Rune continued their advance - yet only one of the creatures in the lead column fell from Erdolas' bowmen on the East Wall.

Silas, hellbent on escape, ran down the road with the pad of Elven boots close behind. The space between his shoulderblades tingled as he waited for the inevitable arrow to materialise there, yet looking over his shoulder the second detachment of Elves had stopped short by the pallisade wall - cackling, he realised he was worth more alive than dead to them!

As the Elves began to gain on him, Silas found quickened his pace and sprinted up a nearby hillside, spurred on by desperation.  

Back in the compound, the spy's original guard detachment had wheeled round, and under Erdolas' orders were now headed for the North wall, to meet the developing threat there...

While the Half-Orc had led more than half of the Elven garrison a merry dance, Fangor had maneuvered his troops into position virtually unopposed! The North wall and stables now looked somewhat vulnerable as half of the tribe and Guthrum Mane, their unusually sober Rock Giant, continued their advance.

The other half of the tribe seemed to be making for the woods by the Merlinas road - no doubt to cover their advance from the so far, rather ineffectual Elvish archery. Seeing that he was in danger of being outflanked and surrounded, Erdolas sent another volley at the lead elements of this Orc column, sending another brute to an early grave. The detachment on the North Wall also let fly only to see their arrows fail to pierce the Orcs' thick skins and mailed shirts.

Suddenly, the Elf Captain's already grim visage paled further. His eyes narrowed to flint-coloured slits as he strained to make out what the Orcs were waving back at them - it couldn't be...

It was...

A low gasp was let out by the archers around him as the news spread along the line - Herndil and his night patrol would not be back to reinforce the garrison. Certainly not in one piece anyway.

Bits of them could be seen adorning many a crude Orcish trophy necklace...

Hearing the cries of horror from their brothers-in-arms, the archers pursuing Silas Meel gave up the chase - they were needed back at the fort now more than ever.

Even as his would-be captors turned, ran and took up new firing positions by the Barracks, the sly Half-Orc stole his way back. Busy in their vengeance, the archers were oblivious to the spy's machinations as they scored three hits on the lead flanking column - two Orcs fell gurgling and clawing at the arrows through their throats.

 

[Thantsants]

Meanwhile, things were looking grim as a large portion of the Orc force made it to the perimeter wall relatively unscathed.

Fangor Gripe and his mob rushed over to the back of the stables...

... whilst a second group of Orcs pressed against the West wall of the compound. Guthrum's migty frame also loomed menacingly over the stables.  

The orcs bringing up the rear paused to light the tar-soaked torches that they carried.

The Orc's flanking force continued their march into the wood that bordered the Merlinas road.

As if all this wasn't bad enough, many a nervous glance was exchanged between the Elven defenders as the stables began to revererate from Guthrum's mighty blows. Fangor's mob cheerfully joined in the giant's wanton vandalism, despite the fact that their weapons were only able to scratch and scour the masonry. Then smoke began to rise from the West wall as torches were stacked up against the log ramparts....

Faced with a sea of snarling green faces leering through the smoke and flames, Erdolas' detachment lost their nerve and backed away from the pallisade.

Yet did the Elves have some kind of devious plan up their sleeves? Perhaps so, as the archers manning the North wall also pulled back towards the centre of the compound - leaving the pallisades seemingly undefended...

The Elves outside the outpost moved into better firing positions to cover the road to Merlinas, still unaware of their unpleasant stalker. Drawing a bead on the Orcs busy with their fire brands, the elves all found their marks, but only two of the vile creatures fell dead.

Now was the Orcs chance to pounce - The beseigers leapt the still burning West wall and spilled  howling into the compound.

Fangor's mob sidled away from the stables towards the North pallisade, ready to exploit the Elves' weakness there.

Eager to mete out revenge on their tormenters, the Orcs in the wood charged down the Merlinas highway, catching the small detchment there by surprise with their swiftness. Behind them the trailing force of Orcs moved up in the hope there would be something left for them.

The Elves, however, soon recovered from their shock and easily dispatched one of the clumsy beasts. In their rush, the orcs failed to spear any of the lithe forms that danced before them, instead pushing the elves back by weight of numbers.

The Elves held their nerve - only to see one of their number struck down in their midst! Whirling round in the direction of the blow, they were greeted with the mishapen visage of Silas Meel - spy, now turned treacherous assassin! Despite this sneak attack the Elves still remained cool and tightened their sword grips for the next round.

Guthrum Mane, thoroughly enjoying his new game,  continued to demolish the now distincty rickety looking stables, grinning foolishly and humming a tuneless melody in time to his strokes.

Faced with hordes of Orcs pouring into the compound, Erdolas ordered his archers to form into one rank. Unleashing a volley at close range saw three of the interlopers fall. Undeterred by the hail of arrows the frenzied Orcs hurled themselves at the archers - only to be met with a wall of shimmering steel. Elvish blades saw three more of the creatures slain - two at the hands of Erdolas himself! Shaken by the unexpected resistance the orcs failed to bring any of the Elves down and found themselves pushed back against the pallisade wall they'd just scaled. Only Fangor's terrifying bellows from across the compound stopped the yellow-bellied curs from fleeing!

The Elves' victory cry was soon drowned out by the terrible rending sound of timbers stressed to breaking point and the roar of crumbling masonry - Guthrum stood back wheezing from the dust, but happy with the heap he had turned the stables into!

The Elves' woes were to be compounded further. No sooner had one wave of attackers been repulsed than another swarmed in.

Fangor and his mob had scaled the North wall and now menaced the second line of archers. With their backs to the opposite wall, the Elves prepared to sell their lives dearly. Two Orcs fell to their first volley.

The beleagured Elves out on the road fared no better - although the combat was fought to a bloodless draw, they were once again pushed back by the slavering multitude in front of them.

Silas Meel, now somewhat nervous about the presence of many savage looking Orcs who didn't seem too fussy about whom they bludgeoned to death, broke away from the combat and slunk off in the direction of the cross roads to Orc's Drift.

Back in the compound Erdolas urged his warriors to exploit their advantage, Slaying another Orc, he led the Elves forward, pushing the Orcs further back towards the smouldering log wall. The Orcs in their confusion again failed to kill any of their quarry, now turned hunters.

Yet help was at hand for the green skins - Guthrum Mane charged into the Elven line, closely followed by Fangor Gripe's unit! The fighting was savage to behold on both sides - driven to desperate measures the Elves wiped out the remnants of their original attackers - another three orcs falling to Erdolas himself! In answer to the bloodshed, Guthrum casually crushed one of the wearied Elf guardsman, while Fangor's mob brought down another.

 

[Thantsants]

Erdolas' detchment again fought for their lives. Turning on their new attackers the Elves felled another Orc but failed to wound the Rock Giant. The Orcs on the other hand failed to penetrate the finely wrought chainmail of all the Elves but one, and forced the defenders back.

Desperate to aid their brothers-in-arms, the second line of archers levelled their bows, took careful aim... and fired into melee that boiled in front of them! Three orcs were struck but their thick hides and armour saved them. Not so fortunate was the Elf who stared disbelievingly down at the strangely familiar arrowhead that now protruded from his chest! Perhaps ashamed at this terrible deed, the detachment made for the East wall, vaulted it and skulked behind the pallisade!

Noticing a familiar figure slinking sneakily away from the field of battle, Fangor disengaged himself from the fighting and marched over to the now vacated South wall - yes it was that filthy spy Silas... soon Fangor would be free of the worm and the threat he posed to his position and very life....

Once again the Elf detachment defending the road fought their Oricsh attackers off, only to be pushed back again - this time into the hollow of a small hill - now they were surrounded and hemmed in - things did not look good!

Erdolas looked around him, undaunted by the carnage. The crushed remains of the last two of his kinsmen lay dead at the feet of the montrous Rock Giant and the baying pack of Orcs pressed in, eager to taste his blood. As his blade silenced another foe, Erdolas allowed the trace of a grim smile to flicker across his face - it looked like his long yearned for glorious end was at hand...

Slowly and inevitably, however, he was forced to give ground as his attackers stepped over their dead, warily jabbing at him with their rusty and gore-stained weapons.

Locked deep in combat, the Elf hero was in no position to notice the third unit of Orcs enter the compound - whether that would have gladdened his heart or sapped his resolve no-one would know.


Fangor Gripe, meanwhile, stalked over to the gate, glaring balefully at the receding back of Silas Meel. Seeing a chance to redeem themselves, the last detachment of Elf archers once more jumped the log wall back into the compound. Taking aim, they let fly their arrows at the Orc Chieftain's wide and inviting back. Four arrows struck home, the Elves gasped, time itself seemed to slow... and yet the tough old Orc picked himself up completely unscathed!

Spurred on by their Warlord's bloodcurdingly roar of defiance, the Orcs at the base of the hill easily swatted away the Elves' desperate attacks. Slashing and hacking, they tore two of their opponents down, whooping with wild abandon as they gave chase to the sole survivor as he broke and ran up the hill.

Not wishing to tempt fate further, Fangor Gripe dived over the pallisade, away from the keen eyes of the Elven archers, and gave chase to the Half Orc spy. Seeing the danger, Silas gave a pitiful squeak and redoubled his awkard gait into the semblance of a sprint.

Gradually Erdolas became aware of a slackening in the ferocity of the Orcs' attacks. As he wiped the blood and sweat from his brow he was amazed to see the hated creatures backing away, licking their wounds. Then a deep roar came from behind him - Guthrum had claimed the pleasure of gutting the lone Elf for himself. In this brief respite, Erdolas looked around to see a sea of green and savage faces filling the compound as the Orcs of the trailing force maneuvered into position, ready to charge the last remaing archers.

That brief moment of calm was torn asunder as Guthrum's terrible glaive smashed into the ground just where Erdolas had been standing. Recovering from the near miss, Erdolas was unable to find a chink in the brute's tough hide.

Licking his chops in anticipation Fangor savoured the moment as he raised his sword and brought it scything down onto the rapidly slowing and wheezing form of Silas Meel. Gravely wounded, the Half Orc turned on his hunter like a animal at bay. Contemptuously smashing aside Silas' underhand stab, Fangor again raised his sword high. When it fell the only threat to his Chieftainship and life had simply ceased to be...

Casting their eyes at the the two possibe targets in front of them, the newly arrived Orcs in the compound wisely chose to charge the last detachment of Elf archers - rather than the manic Elf champion locked in his death struggle with the giant!


Storming through the hail of arrows unscathed, they hacked down one of the unfortunate defenders for the loss of one of their own. The Elves were forced once more out of their own fort and gleefully the howling mob followed!

Feeling the deadly lethargy of fatgue creeping into his limbs, Erdolas backed away from his towering opponent towards the barracks in the hope of gaining some cover from the giant's wild and clumsy attacks. Again and again the massive glaive came thundering down; again and again the weary Elf dancd painfully out of the way, only to see his well aimed jabs and thrusts turned by Guthrum's tattered chainmail.

Alone on the crest of the hill the routing Elf stopped. A burning desire to avenge his kinsmen raged through his body. Gripping his sword with renewed vigour he turned... and was cut down by the baying pack of Orcs as they came piling up the slope after him!

Over on the West Wall the Orcs continued to push the Elves back in a surprisingly bloodless scuffle - perhaps limbs on both sides were beginning to hang like lead from the rigours of battle - even the surprise flank attack by Fangor Gripe failed to claim any of the defenders' lives!

Epilogue

Yet slowly and inevitably the Elves faltered and one by one the mob dragged them down until there was naught but bloody ruin...

In the shadow of the barracks the last stand was fought out. A green throng soon gathered to watch the spectacle as Elf and Giant fought out their terrible duel.

Cheers went up as the Elf was sent sprawling like a rag doll, caught by one of Guthrum's murderous blows. Cheers went up when the brute let out a bellow of pain when the Elf's blade found a soft spot.

And yet this strange dance could not go on forever. A feeling of     tranquility smoothed Erdolas' troubled brow - now was his moment.

With lowered sword, he stepped forward to embrace the release  from his shame he had long craved...

Victory Points

Elves - 38

Orcs - 9



So a pyrrhic victory to the Wood Elves of Kachas Pass who earned 38 points for killing all those Orcs! The Vile Rune Tribe only got their paltry looking 9 points for killing 9 Elves by the end of the 15 turn limit I had set - the epilogue is what I felt to be the inevitable conclusion had we played this scenario to the bitter end!

The unexpectedly stiff resistance put up by the plucky Elf garrison meant that the Vile Rune Tribe wouldn't be able to show up at Orc's Drift until turn 10 - a little tardy to say the least!

 

[Thantsants]

Encounter at Ashak Rise

Borinn Fimbul surveyed the scene before him with satisfaction. The riverbank was alive with industry as several groups of Dwarfs busily sifted through the fine silt. He congratulated himself on his decision to desert from the Army of the Grand League and marvelled at how he had been the only one to spy the great riches that lay sparkling in the River Canis. Safe in the knowledge that the road was watched carefully by Dwarfish eyes reddened by Gold fever, Borinn let his mind wander back to when his scheme had been in its infancy...

"Hang on, lads; I've got a great idea"
"What's that then?" whispered Snorinn, furtively looking over his shoulder in case they were heard.
Borinn Fimbull, regarded his son with his sternest of looks, before sweeping his baleful gaze across the rest of the motley gang assembled before him.
"It's a very difficult job and the only way to get through it is we all work together as a team. And that means you do everything I say."
The Dwarfs nodded their assent earnestly and huddled together to listen to the plan...


The night air was suddenly ruptured with a loud explosion. Horses reared and screamed and the shouts of the soldiers soon added to the consternation and confusion. Tent flaps were thrown open and the 52nd Ramalian Foot left the warmth of its bedrolls to see what threat it now faced.

Amidst all this chaos, thirteen shadowy and diminutive forms scurried off into the woods at the edge of the road.

Borinn fetched his son a hefty blow around the head.

"You were only supposed to blow the bloody horse up!"

"But Dad..."

"Nevermind that - at least they won't be after us on horseback now. Right we'd best be off before we're missed."

With that Borinn, Snorinn and their band of deserters headed back up along the river. With a lightness of step and gladness of heart, each Dwarf knew that there was gold to be had - gold a plenty! By the end of the night there was more than a few of the party that had sore heads because they had forgotten the need for stealth and given in instead to the urge to sing an old mining song or two.

Absent-mindedly humming one of said mining songs, Borinn was gradually brought out of his reverie by an insistent ringing noise. Looking around dazedly, the old Dwarf finally came to his senses - the alarm bell. That meant intruders! Intruders who wanted his gold!

Already the others were stashing their panning gear and were concealing themselves along the river bank. Already the sound of baying hounds was ringing through the valley. Borinn's already beady eyes narrowed still further and his knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on his axe...

The game seemed to be up for the Dwarfs. There was no hiding from these interlopers. Borinn, Snorinn and their party made a dash for the bridge - the only place they were likely to hold off the tide of Orcs pouring up the valley towards them.

The three Dwarfs who had been working downstream from the main party had also seen the danger, and began making their way back towards the bridge.

Nearer to the cabin the prospectors had been using to stash their ill-gotten gains in (and less importantly to eat and sleep in), three pack mules stood passively by. This scene of rural tranquility contrasted sharply with the clamour of the third party of Dwarfs who now scrambled into position. Readying their crossbows, three of them headed for the ditch, which skirted their dwelling. Without a thought for their own lives and their thoughts firmly fixed on getting the all important gold they had collected so far to safety, the two remaining Dwarfs headed for the cabin to begin loading up the mules.

 

[Thantsants]

Hagar Sheol drew himself up to his not inconsiderable height and cast his eyes down the valley. There lay the hut the stunties had no doubt holed themselves and their gold up in. All there was to do was to cross the bridge and take it....

With a great roar from their chieftain, the Orcs of the Severed Hand surged forwards. The hobhounds led the way, bounding forward with much snarling and slavering, as Borinn and his men moved to block off the bridge.

Behind them came the main Orc column, flanked by two small groups of archers.

And a small trailing force brought up the rear.

Both units of archers immediately let fly a ragged volley - those on the right had no luck finding their targets, whilst those on the left found their mark and left one Dwarf crossbowman clutching at his belly.

Barely had Borinn, Snorinn and their two clansmen made it to the bridge than the hobhounds were on them. Jaws snapped and ripped but the Dwarfs managed to fend them off. However, caught out by the savagery of the attck they were forced back onto the bridge itself.

As their quarry had now gone to ground in the ditch that ran along the wall, the arrows of the Orc archers on the left failed to find their targets. Those on the right fared only slightly better having found their range - one of the Dwarfs was struck, but was saved by his finely woven chainmail.

Vowing revenge, the Dwarf crossbowmen opened up from their position in the drainage ditch and indeed their comrade was avenged as an Orc archer fell. Behind them, their two comrades readied themselves to begin loading the mules up with their stash of gold .

Just outside the other side of the house, the Dwarf who had rung the alarm bell was about to enter, to begin pulling the cases of nuggets from their hiding place beneath the floorboards.

In the confined space of the bridge, Borinn and Snorinn joined the fray, easily holding the rabid pack off and slaying two of the vicious beasts to boot. Unable to press their advantage of numbers home the combat ended in a stalemate for the hounds.

A bottleneck was beginnig to form as the Hobhounds again failed to push the doughty Dwarfs off the bridge, losing another two of their number. Impatiently the warriors of the Severed Hand queued up for a piece of the action as well as Orcs can!

At least the archers had something to do to keep themselves occupied - the left flank having more luck in killing one of the clansmen there than those on the right.

The Dwarfs on the bridge found themselves pushed back now, as the hobhounds surged forward. There were no casualties on either side but again the sheer ferocity of the dogs attacks forced the Dwarfs to give ground, despite the arrival of the gold panning party from downstream.

Loading had begun as the first cases of gold bgan emerging from the cabin.

And the crossbowmen in the ditch once again scored a hit. However, it was to prove only a glancing blow and only served to provide one happy Orc archer with a souvenirr of the battle!

Encouraged by the hounds progress on the bridge the Orc force advanced a little further along the Linden road.

As their targets had become embroiled in the fighting on the bridge, the archers on the left flank moved over and combined with the archers on the right. That should give them a more unfair advantage in the duel with the Dwarf crossbowmen conealed in the ditch.

Things weren't looking so certain for Grashak Kra and his hobhounds on the bridge. Again they failed to pull any of the Dwarfs down and again they suffered terribly at the hands of Borinn and Snorinn, losing two more hounds.

The now reinforced unit of archers let fly at the Dwarfs across the river and scored two hits but no wounds..

The crossbowmen return fire and again pick off an other Orc archer.

More gold was loaded onto the mules as the three Dwarfs worked feverishly, stopping only to surreptitiously open a case and longingly at its contents.

Having worked himself up into a proper gold-fuelled frenzy, Snorinn laid about him, felling another two hounds and sending the rest of the pack packing! With a great cry of "You shall not pass!" ringing in their ears, the hounds ran, whimpering, with their tails between their legs.

However, the Dwarfs' victory cries were soon silenced as the main Orc column took the place of the hounds and crashed into their painfully thin shieldwall.

 

[Thantsants]

The archers reformed themselves into an extended line with a most unorcish display of drill and discipline. This precision seemed to follow on into their shooting - bringing their bows up and loosing their arrows in unison, they cackled and howled as the ditch became a ready-made grave for one of the Dwarf crossbowmmen.

Failing to actually wound any of the bridge's defenders and even losing one of their number in the mad charge, the Orcs forced the Dwarfs to retreat or risk being overwhelmed.

Meanwhile, with much yelling, shouting and even biting, Grashak wrested control of his pack back and turned them towards the bridge once more.

The mules were beginning to shift restlessly under the weight as another three cases were brought out and loaded onto them.

Grimly, the sole remaining crossbowman loaded his weapon and picked off another Orc archer.

Undaunnted by the horde of leering greenskins bearing down upon them, the four plucky Dwarfs took back the upper hand in the combat. Led forward by their chief and his son, they felled two more of the brutes and drove their attackers back across the bridge!

Cursing the cowardly wretches around him, Hagar Sheol bellowed out his orders. The trailing force moved forward and joined up with beleagured advance guard. Again, however, the Dwarfs' skill at arms made them tough targets to lay a killing blow on and two more Orcs mixed their blood with the cold, clear waters of the River Canis.

With the added momentum from behind, the Orc column acted like a battering ram on the Dwarfs' defensive line. Again Borinn and his clansmen found themselves stepping back over those they had slain but moments ago.

The archers again took their aim at the last Dwarf crossbowman. They had found their range and some of the more enterprising bowmen were attempting to drop their arrows into the ditch from on high. Sadly for the Dwarf one of them found their mark and he slouched down to join his comrades in the mud.

With shaking hands one of the mule loaders took his animal's tether in hand and began leading it towards the Linden road and safety. His two comrades looked on with more than a hint of jealousy in their gaze, before going back inside to get the last of the gold from its hiding place.

Picking their way back through the corpses that littered the bridge and its approach, Snorinn and company were able only to fend off the Orcs' attacks. Unable to gain a breathing space or take a stand, the Dwarfs were again forced back. The Orcs now had a bridgehead and things looked bleak indeed!

Again Hagar pressed home his advantage, spurring his warriors on to drive the Dwarfs back. Despite once more failing to kill any of the enemy and sustaining another casualty, the Orcs won through with strength of numbers again. Visibly shaken at the prospect of losing the gold to these savages, the Dwarfs almost broke, but luckily gold fever had the stronger pull.

Taking advantage of the gap left by the advancing Orc column, Grashak Kra spurred his charges onwards and they too crossed the bridge, followed by the archers, in search of new targets.

Finally the last of the cases of gold nuggets were loaded onto the mules, as the two Dwarfs cast the odd fearful glance at the worsening situation over by the bridge.

That situation was going from bad to worse as Borinn and his clansmen struck back. Beset on two sides, they managed to strike another foe down. Orc blades found their way past the defenses of two of the beleagured Dwarfs. Stepping back over their own dead this time, the Dwarfs again retreated in good order.

The one ray of hope (well for the Dwarf in question!) was that the lead mule team was making good progress towards the road and didn't appear to have any obstacles in its way...

As the Dwarfs are pushed back once more in a bloodless round of combat the archers took advantage of the space and crossed the bridge, opening up into extended line once more. Spying the Dwarf attempting to lead his mule very quietly to safety, they let fly an ineffective volley at long range.

Grashak Kra also spotted the danger and moved his hounds forward to intercept any Dwarfs attempting to escape along the highway.

Beads of anxious sweat joined those caused by gold fever as the two Dwarfs lashed the last of the cases of gold to their mules and began to lead the stubborn animals away from the clamour of battle.

The bitter fighting dragged on between the clansmen and the main Orc force. Two more Orcs were dispatched as the fighting swirled around Snorinn and Hagar.

The big old Chieftain was not one to turn down a challenge from a puny stuny and yet he couldn't quite conceal the look of pained surprise as the little Dwarf's sword rang against his battered helm!

The Orc archers follow on behind, eyes darting this way and that for any targets of opportunity.

The mule train hastily made for the road before it was blocked by the oncoming Orc column. The mule drivers glance worriedly up at the darting silhouettes of the hobhounds on the hill.

Risking one last look back to see how his comrades were faring, the lead mule driver turned and breathing a sigh of relief mixed with sadness and anger. The road ahead was clear and he had gold and the memories of his clansmen and their murderers to keep safe. The sound of battle soon receded as he rounded the bend and began the descent down to Linden.

The desperate struggle between Snorinn and Hagar raged on. This time it was the Dwarf's turn to feel the strength of his foe's arm as the Orc's great axe crashed into his shield.

The Orc archers' advance had paid off as one of thee mule teams lurched out onto the road ahead of them. With much arguing over how big a share they would receive should they bring the overloaded beast down, they let fly their arrows.

As the stricken mule breathed it last and its Dwarfish driver ground his teeth in despair, the Orcs began a new round of arguing over who had actually made the kill...

Not wishing to loose out on any claim to the booty, Grashak Kra spurred his hounds on to attack the third mule. The Dwarf leading it dropped the mule's tether, swung his crossbow up and fired at the oncoming hounds. The shot went wild, but the Dwarf was ready for the onslaught and deftly opened up one of the ferocious hounds' bellies as it flung itself at him. The other dogs were unable to bring the mule down straightaway as it laid about itself with powerful kicks.

Enraged at having lost another faithful hound, Grashak barged into the fray.

Had the Orc packmaster, or indeed any of his foul smelling brethren looked down the road they might have redirected their barbarism. Bathed in the golden light of the setting sun and cutting a rather ill tempered and disconsolate figure was the muleless mule driver - dragging his share of gold to freedom.

Again the Dwarfs succeeded in holding Hagar's horde at bay. Borinn again proving himself to be a real thorn in their side as he slew another two of the monsters. A wide berth opened up around the maddened dwarf and the Orcs fell back before the red ruin he dealt.

And yet the Dwarfs' apparent invulnerability couldn't last. First taking the flat of his axe to encourage the cowering warriors around him, Hagar dealt a mighty blow against Snorinn. A great roar erupted from the now emboldened Orcs as the Dwarf hero sank to his knees, helm cleft in two. Another of his clansmen joined him as the baying crowd closed in once more.

Grashak Kra's snarling hobhounds also finally succeeded in pulling the last mule to the ground. The beast's life blood mingled with the cold that cascaded from its packs into the dirt.

Borinn looked about him and despaired. As his last clansmen was struck down beside him he bowed his head in shame...

Not because he had deserted or gotten his gold through dishonest means...

As he made his last stand and bellowed his last lamenting warcry his only regret was that his gold would be sullied by rough and Orcish hands...

Epilogue

The smell of charred and roasted meat wafted through the cold mountain air as the Orcs sat around licking their chops and gnawing at the last of Dwarfs. Hagar Sheol absent-mindedly rolled a large and mishapen nugget of gold in his hand. The Stunties had fought hard and well for their treasure but to no avail. The Orc chieftain grinned - they would late arriving to the big fight but he was sure none of the other tribes would find this little venture as rewarding as he had already...

So another mauling for the Orcs - not as bad as what the Vile Rune tribe suffered, but still the Severed Hand suffered a fair few casualties and wouldn't be turning up to Orc's Drift till turn 8.

The Dwarfs on the other hand amassed a huge 34.5 victory points for the gold they managed to squirrel off the table and the casualties they inflicted on the Orcs - again characters like Borinn and Snorinn proved to be absolute demons in close combat. They pretty much single-handedly held up the Orc advance and refused to rout despite being pushed back right from the bridge to near their own table edge! It was just a shame more of their party weren't alive to savour their victory in the end!

 

[Thantsants]

The Reaving of Linden Way

Magyar Ironfist, Chieftain of the mighty Kwae Karr Orcs, curled what was left of his upper lip in disgust. A low rumbling growl emanated from the brutish Warlord as he tried to decide which sight was more offensive - the pitiful human village with its even more pathetic defenders which lay further down the road, or the foul smelling and decidedly moth-eaten Shaman who was furiously scratching his crotch before him.

"Give it a rest Bagrash!"

"Sorry Oh Mighty Chief, scourge of the Northern Wastes, terror of Ramalia, crusher of..."

"Enough!" Roared Magyar. Oh how he hated such craven belly-crawling...
"So shaman, I gather we are graced with the presence of our Lord and King, F'yar."  

" Yes your Mightiness.. erm, I mean... yes, he has lent his support and that of his elite Guard to our cause, Master" Bagrash ducked backwards automatically as he saw Magyar's already tortured brow contort even further. A huge fist whistled through the space the shaman's head had just vacated.

"Bah, that cursed dog mocks me. Already the yellow cur wastes my strength on such paltry quarry as this. Now he seeks to further paint me as a weakling by showing up here and robbing me of what little sport there is to be had. If he thinks he can come swanning back in here and..."

Bagrash settled back onto his haunches and began investigating his groin again. Preparations A through to G had failed to salve the burning irritation he felt down there - maybe his next concoction might do the trick...

"... and never before will the world have seen such red ruin as that which I shall rain upon the people of Linden. And I will strike down upon them with great vengeance and furious anger..."

Magyar's ranting washed over the old Orc, almost soothing in its familiarity. Bagrash began to feel himself nodding off. There wasn't much to do but wait - it didn't matter which meat-head was in charge - they all seemed to shout him as much as each other. If Magyar nursed a grudge against F'yar and coveted the throne so be it - just as long as old Bagrash didn't get in the firing line.

"... and fireballs - we'll need lots of them, and lightning. Are you listening you scabrous old goat?!"

Bagrash mumbled his assent to his Master's demands and took his leave to begin his magical... and medicinal preparations...

The column of marching Orcs came to a shambling halt as they came to the edge of the woods that covered their approach to the sleepy village of Linden Way. Magyar Ironfist, would-be Crusher of the North barged up and down the ill-disciplined ranks.

"When I say halt I mean stop you miserable worms!" Several troopers nursed their heads as the Chief asserted his command.

"Oo's ee callin' a worm?" muttered one of the Orcs. Kwaekarr Otes took pride in his work, as did all the Kwae Karr tribe, and he disliked baseless slurs on his abilities.

His mate, Red Eebrek, leaned over and whispered "Nevermind 'im - Muss be that lot up at the front."  

A roar erupted from the front of the column, "Shut up! Silence!" Magyar Ironfist glared at the lines of warriors drawn up in front of him.

"Now then lads, listen up - this here's the plan. We're going down there and we're going to level that village. I don't want anything left standing, crawling or breathing. But first we're going to let our glorious leader and his F'yar Guard have the first go. Be a shame if anything nasty were to happen to him. At least he's got us to watch his back..."

The air was rent with a terrible sound - that of Magyar Ironfist's attempt at evil cackling, and worse still - his minions' lacklustre attempt at joining in with him.

Behind the Orc column emerged a unit of archers, who took up position behind the hill that overlooked the settlement. Grinning evilly, they lit torches and prepared the fire arrows for their first volley.

 

[Thantsants]

Meanwhile, on the other side of the hill King F'yar gripped his saddle more tightly as his startled Wyvern mount let fall another mountainous pile of dung. What the hell was that dolt, Magyar, playing at, raising a racket like that?!

"'Ow long 'ave we to stand 'ere then?" groused Ing Ulnook, glancing warily at the proximity of the Wyvern's latest deposit.

"Dunno - depends wot 'im up there sez, dunnit" Chim Neepees was the proudest member of the F'yar Guard and would brook no lip or dissention.

Cole Scuttul weighed into the discussion, "S'awright fer flyboy up there - bet the smell dunt reach that far."

"Yer, maybe e's gonna flush out dem humies with by... buy-a-lod... buy-a-lod-sickle weapons?"

The rest of the Big'uns turned and looked at Indukt Shuneater.

"Wot are yoo on about?" Normally taciturn to the point of muteness, Harth Fender shook his head - that boy had some strange new-fangled ideas.

The F'yar Guard didn't have long to wait as it happened. With a great cry the serpentine reptile laboured into  the sky, once more lightening its load as it went - much to the disgust of the earthbound Orcs below.

"... And so men, that is what Ramalia expects of you. Honour, valour and - cough, cough - the laying down of your life in her name - cough"  This last part of the rousing speech that Captain Leofric had just delivered, spurred on by several pints of Bludweiser Light, was muttered somewhat sheepishly and speedily into his sleeve.

"What was that last bit, sir?" A dozen or so suspicious faces regarded the young captain with hostility through the smokey and noxious atmosphere of the Inn.

Sergeant Corbin Grincheux rolled his eyes, and with typical Breton sang-froid suppressed the urge to cuff the little upstart around the head. It was bad enough that they had been given a rabble of  the highest order with which to defend this miserable hamlet - important only for the crossroads it squatted on. Now their recently, and in his opinion, unwisely promoted Captain, still wet behind the ears and possessed of the most romantic and unrealistic ideas about the Arts of War, was sapping morale with his little pep talks...

Then there was the little matter of the Captain's "favouritism" for that scurrilous rogue, Ric. Grincheux narrowed his eyes as he glared at the boy in question. There was something the grizzled old sergeant couldn't put his finger on about the lad - was it the strangely smooth complexion, the lithesome figure or girlish laugh? Yes, he thought, Leofric should definitely lay off Ric - it just wasn't proper for an officer to moon about so much over one of the enlisted men...

The settlement of Linden Way buzzed with life like a fat bluebottle, beating its last reserves of energy against a windowpane. The village Inn, The Slann in Space, had been occupied, unsurprisingly, by the majority of the militia. Across the road in the stables, Wilfrid Post engaged in his usual pastime of trying to persuade his stable "boy", Thori Dittori, to be his next jockey.

 

[Thantsants]

Over in the village store, Grunville Longpockets kept one wary eye on his goods and the other on the militia men stationed there. The presence of the village's mayor, Leofwine, did not reassure him. In fact presence was overstating the matter, as Leofwine was barely functioning as a human being, suffering as he was from a hangover of monstrous proportions...

"Ohhh my head. By all that is holy won't someone fetch me a hair of the dog"

Hrothgar, the local landowner's head yeoman, and Grimwald, one of the village's woodcutters, looked at each other over the prostrate form of their great leader. The other regular conscripts shifted uncomfortably, shifting their glances to avoid making eye contact with either of the old timers.

"What are we going to do with him - he must have had at least two pints of that Troll-Breath Stout last night!" mused Grimwald.

"Nevermind the wine - its the ale he wants to leave off" Hrothgar observed reproachfully.

"Might , I, er, r... re... re... rec..., er recommend O' Hurley's patented Corpse Reviver, sir? Only 15 groats?" Grunville treated the soldiers to his most ingratiating rictus grin.

"Now if I had been able to train as a Doctor I might now be in a position to assist dear boy - fancy a jelly baby - they're a new invention of mine!" Tom the Baker flashed the bemused company a toothy grin, "No, well nevermind..."

Gladyss tutted impatiently, removing the lead stopper from a stout earthenware flask and releasing a miasma of poisonous fumes into the air. "Nevermind him, drag the poor old mayor over here and I'll sort him out."

The relative calm of the village was soon to be disturbed. Up in the watchtower, the militia's archers and scouts scanned the horizon. Jaws dropped and alarum bells rang as sharp eyes caught sight of the approaching Orc column.

At that the pub emptied quicker than the time Aulden Bitte, Arthur Bitte the landlord's father, first discovered he was incontinent. Captain Leofric led his merry band out to the boundary fence, ready to sell their lives dearly.

Unfortunately the staff of the Slann in Space displayed no such fighting spirit as they began heading for the hills. Taking advantage of the situation, the less savoury elements of the militia stayed behind, helping themselves to another round - on the house of course!

Hot on the heels of the Bitte family and other assorted hangers on was Wilfrid Post and Dittori - maintaining a steady gallop!

Like a bear with a sore head, the newly revived Mayor Leofwine led his men out of the store and onto the crossroads to see what was going on. Behind them Gladyss and Tom the Baker succeeded in prizing Grunville's iron grip from the store's doorframe, and proceeded to drag him away from his beloved shop.

 

[Thantsants]

The cause of the village's alarm swung into view as the Kwae Karr Orcs marched down onto the approach road, accompanied by much howling, clashing of weapons and gnashing of teeth.

Behind them the Orcish archers gained the summit of the hill, swinging their bows up in the direction of the enemy.

A line of fire extended across the ridgeline briefly before soaring into the sky as the Orcs let fly their first volley of flaming arrows at the village store. Smoke began to rise up from the building as it began to smoulder.

The F'yar guard continued their advance through the woods to the South West of the settlement.

With a piercing shriek King F'yar came hurtling out of the sky and landed with a crash on the main street. The wyvern looked about and squealed in delight at the tasty treat arrayed before it. Not even the fireball Bagrash hurled at the store to its right could distract it from its prey!

The long neck darted out with horrible speed and slavering jaws closed around the struggling forms of Grunville and his wife! The Wyvern chewed thoughtfully - if it had been able to understand such concepts as sweet and sour, it might have remarked on the contrasting flavours now filling its mouth.

F'yar's lance whistled past Tom Baker's left ear. As he ran from the snarling Orc he shouted back,

"Killing me isn't going to help you! It isn't going to do me much good either!"

The militia swung into action like a lame chimp. Reacting heroically to this new threat, Leofwine scurried back into the cover of the smoking store as the Wyvern swooped low overhead in pursuit of the rest of the villagers.

The archers in the watchtower snapped off a volley at the receding reptile. One arrow somehow found a soft spot, as testified by the enraged squawk the Wyvern let out!

Undaunted by the large number of Orcs making their way down the road Captain Leofric led his men to close the gap.

Undaunted by the scurrying militia forces standing in their way the Kwae Karr column marched steadily onwards. Behind them the archers sent another flaming volley into the stores. Leofwine's detachment began to think twice about their choice of shelter as the building began to turn into a raging inferno!

The F'yar Guard emerged from the woods and threatened the Militia's left flank.

F'yar wheeled and brought his Wyvern into another low swoop over the village, his target this time - the fleeing bar staff of the Slann in Space! Turning on the monster, Aulden Bitte raised his stick in defiance, only to be crushed underfoot!

F'yar fixed Arthur's daughter, Fancia Bitte, with a lecherous eye before skewering her with his lance. Such was the force of his thrust that Arthur fund himself transfixed as well!

Muttering his incantations once more, Bagrash extended his crooked and foul-smelling finger once more and unleashed another two fireballs. This time two of Captain Leofric's men burst into flame.

 

[Thantsants]

Back in town, Tom the Baker carefully crept up the street. The way ahead was blocked by the enormous bulk of the Wyvern and terrible sounds drifted down the road.

He wasn't sure how he was going to get round to freedom but Tom felt sure some opportunity would present itself.

Again the militia's archers opened up on F'yar and his Wyvern - their hopes were raised as several arrows found their mark, and dashed as the missiles bounced off the creature's hardened scales.

Helga, the Slann's formidable barmaid, rolled up her sleeves and prepared to sell her life dearly for the one she loved. However, the wretched sobbing of the terrified busker, Elwin Presslay, were severely testing that love. She let her heart soften a moment - the sight of an enraged Wyvenr would be enough to unman most men - was she being to hard on the lovable old rogue? Without stopping to look back, Helga grabbed her man, threw the whimpering form over her shoulder and ran to safety!

Magyar drew his Orcs to a halt at the entrance to the village. To his right he could see the F'yar guard also approaching. Why not let them make the first move, he thought, he and his Kwae Karr Orcs would mop up the mess they left.

The archers upped sticks and began moving down the hill. They had done their worst to the stores and the next target was the watch tower. Another volley of firey missiles flew through the air and smoke now issued forth from the tower.

And yet the Orcs' cheers were cut short - something was moving in the ruins before them...

Barrachus the insane illusionist had been disturbed!

Dimly aware of another magical presence on the battlefield, Bagrash sent forth another to fireballs, condemning another two militia men to an incandescent end.

Meanwhile, F'yar's Wyvern had landed astride the road to Meledir. With nowhere left to run, Wilfrid and Dittori's racing days were over before they had begun...

Having witnessed the gruesome end of two more of his fellow villagers, Tom the Baker nervously ran his tongue over his many teeth - there must be some way past...

Making his mind up he sauntered nonchalantly up the street towards the hissing monster. Of course he'd be able bluff his way past - and if not the beast would be so surprised at the offer of a jelly baby or two that he was sure he would be able to slip past...
... Mind you he didn't like the way the arrows the archers were firing at it were antagonising the creature, ineffectual as they were!

Beset on all sides Captain Leofric ordered a formation change. If there was a thin red line it was here as the few remaining militia men spread themselves along the fenceline in line abreast.

Barrachus glared through the window of his beautiful villa - green faces stared back in surprise at him. Emotions chased each other across the insane old magician's face as his multiple personalities fought for supremacy. In a moment of rare lucidity Barrachus made the connection between his race's age old enemy and the deep seated hatred that was growing in the pit of his stomach - a hatred that would rule him for the next half an hour or so!

Barrachus began intoning the words that would cause the foul creatures to visualise their worst nightmare in a terrible hallucination. A corona of light began to form around the old man's outstretched hand, tendrils of unnatural fire flickered about him and...

... fizzled out. The old man was left muttering confusedly, trying to remember what had annoyed him so much just a moment ago!

 

[Thantsants]

Seeing that there was no way the humans were going to come anywhere near endangering the life of King F'yar, Magyar cursed and advanced his column towards the village. The ragged remnants of the militia that guarded the boundary fence were no threat - two were cut down by his Orcish archers as he watched and the survivors seemed transfixed by the advance of the fearsome looking F'yar guard.

King F'yar looked down incredulously at the ridiculous figure strolling up the gore spattered street towards him. Was the imbecile actually... yes! He was actually whistling! And twirling a small paper bag in his hand. This wouldn't do at all.

Kicking the Wyvern viciously, F'yar swooped down on the strange figure. His mount opened its jaws wide and with a strangled "Fancy a..." Tom the Baker was no more...

With a great shower of sparks and protesting timbers the village store finally succumbed to the flames. Bagrash, his face taking on a demonic aspect, lit as it was by the flickering fire light, drew himself up and launched another two fireballs. Screaming through the air, they slammed into the already smoking watch tower. Inside the archers escaped any harm, although their position was becoming increasingly precarious.

There cover quite literally blown, Mayor Leofwine and his detachment charged across the still burning ruins and into the Kwae Karr column. The mayor brought his great sword around in a wide arc and smote the Orc chieftain. Staggering back Magyar shook his head clear and, unharmed, retaliated by braining one of the militia.

As things were getting decidedly warm in the watch tower, the archers quickly spilled out onto the street. Looking round for new targets they spotted the Orc archers in the distance. One arrow found its target but at that range did no damage.

Barrachus felt the familiar spinning in his head and his ears filled with whispering voices as the madness once again claimed him. This time his condition left him trembling in fear - suddenly the world was an inexplicably terrifying place for the old man.

With the multitude of leering green faces still glaring at him from the hillside, Barrachus sought safety in number. As if by magic two illusory (and strangely non identical) clones materialised beside him. Now completely confused, the Orc archers continued to ignore the mad old bird!

 

[Thantsants]

Back in the village the situation was looking increasingly bleak for the militia. With a bloodcurdling cry the F'yar Guard charged the much reduced company guarding the fence. Another soldier joined his brothers-in-arms in the mud, felled by a cruelly barbed Orc glaive. And yet not all went the Orcs' way. Poor old Induckt Shuneater gaped down at the gaping hole in his midriff. Looking up he glared at the equally surprised militia man on the other end of the offending sword, before falling to the ground, stone dead.

The Kwae Karr Orcs felled another luckless soldier, whooping with wild abandon as they pushed back and enveloped the small band of valiant fighters.

 

King F'yar looked about him for his next victim. His Wyvern snorted disappointedly as the lack of fresh meat. With a shrug of its wings it turned and shambled towards the fracas going on between the Kwae Karr Orcs and the last remaining militia men to see if there was the odd scrap going spare.

Out for revenge, the Orc archers ranged in on their human counterparts. The volume of arrows compensated for their poor marksmanship and one of the militia's archers fell dead.

Penned in on all sides Mayor Leofwine's men fought back with a strength born of desperation. An Orc trooper fell to the onslaught and Bagrash himself reeled back, clutching a deep wound in his side.

Having watched most of the battle from inside the pub, the more roguish elements of the militia decided to finally make an appearance. Whether to come to aid Leofwine in his heroic last stand, or to slink away while most of the Orcs were busy in their butchery wasn't immediately clear...

The remaining archers caught sight of their old enemy once more as F'yar and his Wyvern emerged from the village. Easily scoring several hits, the archers again cursed the lack of penetrating power their arrows.

The three Barrachuses again attempted to terrify the Orc interlopers with another hallucination, however, their collective insanity had reduced them to simpletons, and once again the crucial incantations were forgotten.

The entrance of F'yar and his Wyvern into the fray was the last straw for Leofwine and his not so happy few. Two of his men were snatched up into the air in the creature's slavering jaws, a third was run through by the Orc King's lance and the viciously spiked club of the Orc chieftain, Magyar Ironfist, was the last thing he ever saw.... moving very fast.... towards his head.

Cackling and whooping the Kwae Karr Orcs wheeled round and plowed into the back of Captain Leofric's unit. Caught between the F'yar Guard and Magyar's mob, the militia men didn't stand a chance...

Ric, on seeing the demise of her favourite captain - the man she hadn't realised she loved until this last, final and terrible moment, gave a great and anguished cry before charging F'yar! Her compatriots had little choice other than follow her into battle!

The Orc archers amusedly watched the three curious humans gesticulating wildly before them, until their Boss, Jeem Boawan, knocked a few heads together and directed their attention to the bowmen who were happily loosing their bows at King F'yar.

Boawan's intervention must have been effective as only one of the four humans was left standing after Orcs' volley!

Looking around him dazedly, the surviving archer pinched himself to check he was alive. A wild euphoria welled up in him at his miraculous escape and so lost was he in his sheer delight at being alive that he failed to notice the air becoming increasingly charged around him. Suddenly, with a great bang and whiff of ozone, a bolt of lightning forked out from where the Orc shaman stood. The poor old archer never knew what hit him!

F'yar made short work of Ric and the last few militia men. Only one survived that brutal attack...

... and he promptly ran for the only place he felt safe - the pub!

Epilogue

The fire must have reached the top shelf liqueurs above the bar in the Slann in Space, as the Orcs' celebrations were interrupted by an enormous concussion.  Unfazed the Orcs set their minds once more to the task of draining the enormous hogsheads of ale they had liberated from the Inn's cellars.

Magyar Ironfist picked his teeth with the end of the rib bone he had been absent-mindedly been chewing. He noted that Bagrash didn't seem to be scratching his delicates as violently as he was normally wont to do and easily resisted the urge to enquire further. Knocking back another bucket of ale, the chieftain grinned to himself - the day had been a good one. His reputation as crusher of the North was coming along nicely and he'd hardly lost any warriors doing it. Admittedly F'yar hadn't met a sticky end - the dog had the luck of the devil sitting on that arrow magnet of a mount of his. Yet a plan was hatching in the wily Orc's mind - if the enemy couldn't be relied upon to get rid of the pretender then maybe he should look elsewhere. What was that old saying - if you want something doing, get someone even bigger than the last lot you forced to obey your every command!

So as I hinted at earlier - a bit of a massacre for poor old Linden Way! Mind you both sets of players were a little wary from the lessons they'd learned in the previous scenarios - the Orcs in particular were especially careful to guard against significant losses what with the final showdown imminent. This wasn't a problem and in fact fitted rather nicely into the way the various characters and forces might have acted within the narrative.

Final scores then were -

Militia - 2.5 - yes you did read that right!
Kwae Karr Orcs - a massive 31!

This meant that (quite fittingly) the Kwae Karr Orcs would be spear-heading the attack on Orc's Drift, arriving as they would be on Turn 4 - those engineers had better get cracking with those mealie bags!

 

[Thantsants]

Blood Bath at Orc's Drift - the Prologue

Osrim scowled into his stew ration with renewed testiness. It wasn't that the dish lacked meat or flavour - he'd given up hoping for either soon after he had volunteered his service to the Grand League's Engineering Corps.

It was that... Elf. Even thinking about that word made his fists itch. Osrim stabbed viciously at a hapless lump of turnip. Mudpies he had sneered, do carry on with your mudpies... It was enough to make a Dwarf do half a job out of spite. Almost.


The bridge had been pretty much the only thing keeping his little unit of sappers together. Ill feeling was running high at missing out on the action going on over at Ortar. All the lads wanted to do was crack a few Goblin skulls and yet here they were playing at... mudpies.


The rest of those pointy-eared fops weren't helping either. As if there leader Broomhead, or whatever he was called wasn't bad enough. Osrim was feeling less and less inclined to talk his Dwarfs down from adding some of those pointy ears to their trophy collections on the now regular occasions when a spat had developed - incited of course by those arrogant little...


Then came a sound he hadn't expected. A clear and shrilly declaimed note sounding out from the peaks that towered above them. A note which shook him to his senses and put his worries and grudges firmly into perspective. A note that made him the only obstacle between the enemy and their ultimate goal - the capital, Palesandre.

Brommedir paced back down the line again, casting a stern eye over the Elves who stood stiffly to attention before him.

"Very good, very good. Spick and span as it should be."

Then again, was everything as it should be? A frown threatened to crease Brommedir's flawless brow. It had seemed like the perfect command at first - Guarding the supply lines to the front at Ortar would give him and his unit plenty of time to do what they did best; polishing their armour, oiling their bows and showing off their fine looks in regular military reviews.

There were, however, several flies in the ointment. That Dwarf who was in charge of the bridge - he hadn't caught his name as the damned fellow had been mumbling as usual. That Dwarf had been acting very suspiciously and Brommedir was becoming increasingly concerned over the safety of the Army paychest that had been put into his care.

The Druid hadn't made a good impression on him either - even less so when he wnadered past, drunk as usual, and made jibes at his fine Elven bowmen as they stood ready for inspection. Toy soldiers indeed! No, that glassy eyed stare and nervous energy that seemed to permanently animate Snart certainly unnerved Brommedir.

As if all that wasn't enough, he now had rank insubordination in his own ranks, as he turned and saw a ripple of movement flow down his beautifully straight ranks. This was intolerable - he couldn't have his once proud looking bowmen looking about them, shuffling their feet nervously and generaly fidgeting in a most unprofessional manner.

"I say, this won't do. This won't do at all..."

Brommedir began a severe reprimand but was caught short by his junior officer - the one who always seemed to shout at him in an incredibly rude manner.

"SIR, SIR. ITS THE ALARM BELL. ORCS SPOTTED ACROSS THE RIVER!"

Elves began moving to defensive positions and Brommedir, never one to be outdone, offered a rather strangled sounding...

"Thats it men, to your stations. Very good, very good."

Brommedir also noticed with satisfaction that the Dwarfs were busying themselves with makeshift barricades using grain sacks, furniture and whatever else came to hand.  He just hoped that they were selecting only the cleanest sacks to be filled and put onto the barricade, if he was going to be defending it.

At least the thought momentarily kept his mind off the fact that they were, as he too now realised, the last line of defence between the approaching Orcs and the capital city, Palesandre...

 

[Thantsants]

King F'yar exalted in the sense of power that coursed through his whole body. The great dorsal muscles of his Wyvern mount surged powerfully beneath him and he narrowed his eyes against the rushing winds to gaze at the land that lay stretched invitingly before him.

Great mountains dwindled into foothills, the narrow passes widened into valleys, in whose depths rivers sparkled in the sunlight before vanishing beneath dark clumps of forest. His eyes lingered on the great patchwork of fields, ran along the roads that criss-crossed back and forth, and which led eventually to the glittering citadel of Palesandre.

He smiled to see the conflagration to the East - a sure sign that his alliance with King Murgol of the Hill Goblins was alive and well. A sure sign indeed that the Grand League had fallen for his plan and that the way lay open to his prize.

The Wyvern banked and swooped to a lower altitude with a little assistance from F'yar's boot and the landscape rushed to meet him. Ah, there it was. Still an insignificant speck nestled amongst the foothills, yet it commanded both the crossing over the river Canis and the main highway that led to Palesandre. If his army were to take the capital, Orc's Drift must fall.

And what of his army? The Orcish King once more scoured the roads and passes that wound their way down from the peaks. Small plumes of smoke punctuated the path his old Tribe, the Kwae Karr, had taken from Linden Way and it seemed they were within striking distance of Orc's Drift. His heart swelling with pride, F'yar searched eagerly for his allies.

Dawdling far to the North West were two ant-like columns, labouring their way down the Kachas road. Fools! They were a long way off from linking up with the Kwae Karr and their numbers seemed to have dwindled significantly too. Whether this was through attrition or cowardice, F'yar cared not. A black rage descended upon him and he plunged his hapless mount into a steep dive.

What need did the King have for such pathetic minions. He would crush them underfoot once he had wiped the remains of the Grand League's finest from his steel-shod boots.  Had not he, the Tyrant of the North, single-handedly  murdered the Half Elf King and plunged the Grand League into disarray? Had not he, F'yar the Merciless, laid a trap big enough for the Grand League's entire army? Had not he, Scourge of the Northlands, Crusher of Hearts, raised the largest, most fearsome horde of Orcs that had ever menaced the lands of Ramalia?

Yes, Orc's Drift was his for the taking. The glory would be his alone and those who cowered in his shadow would rue the...

A terrible rippling and rending noise from below tore him from his reverie and both the Wyvern and its incandescent rider were suddenly born upwards as if their load had somehow been dramatically lightened. F'yar fought for control over the beast and banked into another dive back towards Orc's Drift, growling as he went,

"By the Gods, can you not still your bowels even now?"

 

[Thantsants]

"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.

 

[Thantsants]

"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.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_oBvNFMt9Ic

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,

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BCqNWftzhUI

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...

 

[Thantsants]

"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..."

 

[Thantsants]

"Sir, the Orcs have reached the East wall - our archers need reinforcing. There's more of them approaching from the North!"

Brommedir looked coolly at Aydendorn before giving his measured response,

"It is only a feint, dear boy. I anticipate the main attack to fall upon Chardz's Engineers at the North entrance. I trust he has suitably fortified his position and it is secure. We shall remain here. We have the hospital at our back and command the compound from our redoubt."

Aydendorn looked dubiously at the flames that were now hungrily devouring the hospital's roof. Ominous creaks and groans warned of the timber supports approaching their breaking point.

Brommedir went on,

"Besides, our comrades have been ordered to fallback on my signal. Our piper knows the call..."

The two Elves looked round for their regimental musician as slowly the realisation dawned...

From the East wall came a strangled and desperate whistling and just over the roar of the Orcish battle cry came a faint,

"Spit boy, spit!"



The Orc charge crashed home and yet the Elves stood firm and gave them one last volley before drawing swords. In the confusion of combat neither side managed to land a telling blow but the weight of Orc numbers forced the Elves back from the wall. Backed into a corner with the burning hospital behind them, the Elves made ready to sell their lives dearly.

The sappers had finished preparing the defensive ditches, and as no archers came streaming back from the outer wall as expected they happily hunkered down there, hefting their picks and mattocks in readiness.

Chardz had been contemplating their position. Unhappy that the mealie bag wall they had thrown up was sufficient, he ordered his sappers back to also dig ditches in front of the redoubt and the waiting Elf archers.

With the renewed strength lent to them by desperation, the Elves fought back against the Kwae Karr who had broken through. One Orc fell to their assault, the others unable to penetrate the wall of blades put up by the archers.

Much was the cursing and swearing that darkened the air above Snart. Despite having the horse and ox under his magical control, it was still a struggle to coax them around to the right direction. Eventually the small party looked as though it were ready to leave and not a moment too soon.

The perilous sounding creaks issuing from the stricken hospital began to grow and crescendo. With a great crash the entire structure folded in on itself, sending out great clouds of sparks, ash and smoke. The Kwae Karr archers, who had just peppered it with another volley of flaming arrows, whooped with joy at the destruction they had caused. Bagrash also smiled, as he rubbed his smoking finger having unleashed another fireball in the same direction.

The call was echoed by the rest of the Orc horde as it continued to lap around the walls of Orc's Drift in hungry waves.

The Vile Rune Orcs edged further forward, threatening Chardz's now unprotected outer wall.

While Grashak Kra's hounds leapt the barricade and made for the Dwarfs busily digging beyond it, closely followed by the long-legged and, by now, completely ravenous Guthrum Mane!

Magyar laid about him in a terrible rage, incensed at the Elves rebuff to his charge. One of the archers fell to his onslaught and a few of his Orc warriors got a good cuffing for their lacklustre efforts. They were over the wall, but found themselves locked in a fight to the death - even if the Elves had had somewhere to run, they weren't going to.

Bagrash looked on at his handiwork and let out a cry of exultation. The archers had some small part to play in the destruction of the hospital, but it was he, Bagrash the Scabrous, who had brought the Elves' stronghold down around their pointy little ears.

Still feeling power coursing through his very being, Bagrash stepped forward looking for his next victim. Of course there was one small bit of him that wasn't throbbing with sorcerous might. The shaman paused to reach down under his loin cloth for a good scratch.

None of his preparations had worked, and he , as educated as he was for an Orc, was running out of letters of the alphabet for each new and improved version. "H" had been the last preparation he had tried to no avail.  

Bagrash withdrew his hand and sniffed at his finger, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Then the idea struck him. He looked again at his extended finger and then over to smoking remains of the hospital. His eyes flickered back and forth between finger and charred ruins, mulling the pros and cons of his daring new plan. Finally the old Orc's gaze came to rest on his offending appendage...