Nor were the orcs slow to notice. Several of the creatures stepped forward, trying to put out the fire, but elven archers shot them down before they could reach the flames. One fell into the fire instead, and screamed as it consumed him. That made the others shrink back again.
The ogres were a problem, however. One lumbered through the flames, burning its legs but otherwise not slowing down. Turalyon directed a full unit against it, and targeted it with ballistae as well. But the ogre downed many warriors before it finally fell, and others were approaching behind it.
"Target them!" Turalyon told Khadgar. "Take out the ogres!"
Khadgar glanced his way, and Turalyon saw that his friend looked truly exhausted. "I will try," the mage agreed. "But drawing forth the lightning is…taxing." An instant later a lightning bolt burst from his fingers and struck the lead ogre, killing it at once, but even as its massive, blackened corpse fell Khadgar shook his head. "That is all I can do," he warned.
Turalyon hoped it would be enough. The other ogres hesitated, even their small brains able to comprehend the danger, and that gave his men time to target them with arrows and more ballistae. The shield wall still held but the Horde was massing again, and before long it would be able to simply roll over the defenders, its losses barely diminishing its bulk. Uther and the other Paladins had not returned, and Turalyon could only assume they were still keeping those cloaked figures at bay.
He was still wondering what to do when Lothar appeared beside him. "Ready the cavalry!" the Champion shouted. "And sound the charge!"
Charge? Into that? Turalyon stared at his commander for an instant, then shrugged. Well, why not? Their defenses could not hold out forever. He signaled the herald, who blew a might blast. Then those warriors on horseback were forming up, and Turalyon swung in with them, placing himself just behind Lothar, who rode at their head. The shield wall parted for them, and they crashed into the Horde's front ranks, carving a path back through the orcs. After a minute Lothar signaled and they wheeled about, the archers providing cover as they swung clear. Then they struck again.
They were readying for a third charge when a drum beat from somewhere within the Horde—and the orcs fell back!
"We did it!" Turalyon shouted. "They're retreating!"
Lothar nodded but did not turn away, watching as the orcs turned and ran a short distance, then regrouped. Then the creatures turned and began moving again, at a fast march—to the right of the Alliance forces.
"They're heading east," Lothar said quietly. He made no move to chase them. "Into the Hinterlands."
"Are we going after them?" Turalyon asked. His blood was still racing from the charges and he wanted to run after the orcs and smash them all. "We have them on the run!"
But the Champion shook his head. "No," he corrected. "We blocked them, and held. But they are not running from us. They are going around us." Now he did turn to Turalyon, and smiled, a grim, weary smile. "Still," he said, "that is something."
"But we should go after them before they can find another place to stand," Turalyon urged. "Shouldn't we?"
"We should," Lothar agreed. "But look behind you." Turalyon turned and saw at once what the older warrior meant. Their forces were sagging now that the battle was over, and he saw men collapsing where they stood, both from wounds and from sheer fatigue. The battle had lasted for hours, though it had not felt like it at the time, and he found himself aching as well now that it was done. Plus they had destroyed many weapons, emptied most of their ballistae, and used up most of the army's firewood and tinder as well.
"We need to resupply," Turalyon admitted out loud. "We are in no shape to pursue them now."
"No." Lothar turned his horse back toward their own lines. "But we have tested their forces now, and our men have seen that they can stand against the Horde. That is good. And we have kept them from the capital. Also good." He glanced at Turalyon, and nodded finally. "You did well," he said quietly before nudging his horse back toward their troops and the command tent that lay beyond.
Turalyon watched him go for a moment. The simple praise had filled him with pride. And, he realized as he brought his own horse around to follow his commander, Khadgar had been right. He had not had time to be afraid.
CHAPTER NINE
"Nekros!"
Zuluhed, chieftain and shaman of the Dragonmaw clan, strode down the long corridor, glaring at every orc that dared get in his way. "Nekros!" he bellowed again.
"Here, I'm here!" Nekros Skullcrusher limped out of a nearby cavern, his wooden leg clanking against the rough stone floor, ducking to keep from bashing his head against the low doorway. "What?"
Zuluhed stopped beside his Second and glared at him.
"How goes the weapon?" Zuluhed demanded, leaning in close. "Is it ready?"
Nekros grinned at him, showing his yellowed tusks. "Come and see for yourself." He turned and limped back the way he had come, and Zuluhed followed, muttering to himself. He hated this place. It was called Grim Batol, or at least the dwarves had named it so, but it had been one of their fortresses then. Now it be longed to the Dragonmaw, and though its chambers were large enough he despised the low—ceilinged corridors and even lower doorways, tall enough for dwarves but barely enough for most orcs. They would have enlarged the openings but stone was difficult to work and they had little time for such frivolities. The fortress was sturdy, carved into the mountain itself, and easily defended, and that was the important thing.
Nekros led him down farther into the fortress, and finally into a vast underground chamber. And there, chained to the wall by heavy links of dark iron, was a sight that still made Zuluhed catch his breath. Filling the room end to end was a vast figure, coiled in about itself either for comfort of from despair, yet still its wingtips brushed the ceiling and its tail lashed at the far wall. Torches guttered along the walls, their light reflecting from scale after scale, gleaming red as blood, red as flame.
A dragon.
Not just any dragon, either. This was Alexstrasza, greatest of the red dragons, mother of her flight, the queen of her people. Perhaps the most powerful creature in this world, strong enough to destroy entire clans with a single sweep of her majestic claws and consume whole ogres with a snap of her mighty jaws.
Yet they had captured her.
Well, Nekros had. The entire clan had sought a dragon for weeks, any dragon, and had at last spied a lone red male flying low above the forest, nursing a wounded wing. Zuluhed had not wanted to think what could have injured such a majestic creature, but it had made their task easier. They had followed the dragon back to its family's lair, a high mountain peak around which dragons flew like birds, dancing upon the air. They had watched that peak for days, unsure what to do next, until Nekros announced that he had tamed the Demon Soul. Then they had slowly, cautiously crept up to the top, and there they had discovered Alexstrasza and her three mates. The Dragonqueen had noticed them immediately, and had killed four orcs in an instant, opening her mouth and dousing them with flames. But then Nekros had stepped forward and subdued her. By himself. He had ordered Alexstrasza and her kin to follow him here, and they had. The rest of the Dragonmaw had sung Nekros's praises that day, the orc who had singlehandedly cowed an entire dragon flight.
But the maimed warrior—warlock would not have been able to do so without Zuluhed, or the artifact he had found. Zuluhed wished he were able to wield the item himself, but the Demon Soul had not responded to him or his shamanic magic. It had only answered to Nekros, and now the peg—legged orc was the only one capable of controlling it.