Chương 64: Vol 1. No Women's Land: Part 1

Legion Commander Maerka Darsen sat at the rickety old wooden desk that filled most of her tent, a lit pipe dangling from the side of her muzzle. After an unusual heatwave, the typical raininess of springtide had returned. Rainwater had collected in a wooden bowl beneath a leak in the canvas of her tent. Plip. Plip. Plip. That sound was going to drive her insane sooner rather than later.

In front of her lay a crudely drawn map, its edges curled from dampness, with small carved figures atop it marking her position and known Orc positions. It showed their current location: they were a little way past the coastal area they had retaken ten years earlier, inside No Women's Land, a gargantuan strait between the Eastern Elvine Tribes and the Seran realm, extending all the way up to the Outer Islands.

The Orcs had crossed this strait, built ships along the coast, and travelled to the Maraveth Realm's coast and to Fort Queen Tamerus. It was thanks to the Queen's Guard—their meticulous defence of the strait—that the Orcs were confined to their conquest of the Eastern Elvine Tribes; they were getting craftier, though. She had not returned to Veyrath for nearly three years by that point, and yet it felt as if no progress had been made in repelling the enemy. One died; a million more showed up.

And so little was known of the enemy: their culture, language, and the reason for their conquest, be it honour or personal gain; it was all one large blur. Legion Commander Maerka Darsen growled in frustration. Her head was throbbing, and the nub of her tail was swishing as she curled her claws. She needed thirty-eight barrels of powder; she only got twelve delivered. She needed four hundred replacement arquebuses; she only got sixty-one. She needed two hundred and seventeen recruits; she only got eighty-three.

No, she was not going to get fully resupplied for a good long while. That was not going to happen until—"Commander!" a voice belched. Maerka looked to her left and saw her second-in-command, Nareth Vaul, standing rigid, even more so than was typical in her antediluvian armour, with one paw against her forehead in a salute.

"At ease," Maerka said. Nareth lowered her paw.

"What is it you need?" Maerka asked.

"Nothing, ma'am," Nareth said, her eyes darting downward.

"It is just… I have noticed morale is not the highest as of late." Outside, two soldiers were arguing over who got the last half of a ration of salted meat. Somewhere farther down the camp, a woman was singing an old church hymn, alone; no one else bothered to join her, which gave her feminine voice a melancholic tinge.

"I know."

"Is there anything we can do?" Maerka lay back in her wooden chair.

"No."

"What?"

"No."

"Yeah, but surely there is something."

"I'm afraid we will be on our own for a moment."

"Why?" Maerka looked at her second-in-command piercingly.

"You know why."

"It is… oh."

"Yes," Maerka said with a nod.

"Until the Coniton is complete, we will practically be on our own."

"Why is it that anything associated with the Queenship is practically anarchy for a couple of months?" Maerka shrugged.

"It is outlined in the Veyrath Concord. The High Priestess of the time assumed that, had they installed a temporary leader, it would cause that temporary leader to claim real legitimacy."

"And so, they thought anarchy was better?"

"Well, it is not true anarchy," Maerka retorted.

"All the systems remain in place as they were; it just… does not work as efficiently. As soon as a new butt sits upon that throne, we should get more troops and more supplies."

"But what happens if they, you know?" Maerka shrugged.

"Maybe the Orcs will suspend their invasion until the royals can figure out whose arse belongs on the throne."

"Commander, commander!" a new voice said hurriedly. It was one of the lookout guards. A cup on the desk trembled. There was commotion outside.

"What is it?!" Legion Commander Maerka Darsen said, standing on her paws.

"We need you at the front. They're coming."

"What?" she said frantically.

"The scouts had told me—""The scouts were wrong. They had set up a decoy army on our western flank and are attacking from the eastern flank." The commander bared her fangs.

"Those wretched green bastards." This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. She swiftly ran as fast as she could, grabbing her gear. Boots hammered against the mud as rain poured around them, matting their fur. Tent flaps burst open. Half-dressed soldiers were stumbling about outside, dragging breastplates over linen undershirts.

"Arm yourselves!" her second-in-command shouted, à la Paul Revere.

"Eastern flank!"

"Powder! For the love of Seroth, get the fucking powder!"

"Where is Third Company?"

"Third Company is on the western flank!"

"Well, tell them to get their asses over to the eastern flank!" Running to the eastern flank was a mass of soldiery, some in metallic armour, others, particularly those further down the line, wearing cheap leather and linen for better mobility. There was little use for armour when fighting Orcs anyway. Maerka remembered distinctly once seeing one bury an axe through a breastplate, then picking up the barely alive woman with it, using the axe as a fork.

The eastern part of the camp was a deep trench, with rotting and mouldering hardwood fencing in front and similar wood used as a platform. The arquebusiers got into position. They cleaned the bore, added the powder charge, inserted the ball, rammed the charge, primed the flash pan, attached the match, and slung it across their shoulders, aiming, all hell for leather. Pikewomen lined up behind the trench in a proper square pike formation, and behind them were swordswomen.

Commander Maerka Darsen and her second-in-command both rounded up their horses and got atop them, remaining at the very back where they could command. Maerka took a deep breath, her paws tremulous. Usually an intrepid person, she found herself rather apprehensive at that moment, her arms trembling. In the distance, a blob of green was charging towards them. Three. Two. One.

"Fire!" she commanded. The first batch of arquebusiers fired their weapons with a loud bang, soot flying through the air. They hit their targets, but the green mass did not wane. A second group of arquebusiers got up to fire, and the first line fell. Then another, and another, until the first line was ready to fire again.

"Oh, Seroth," Maerka growled under her breath before shouting, "Load faster, you bastards!" Fire! Fire! Fire! Lines of Orcs were falling, but it was as if no damage had been done whatsoever. Smoke rolled over the trench in white billows, making the enemy harder to see. One Orc reached the miniature palisade. An arquebusier, unprepared and firing haphazardly, shot directly into its chest, falling backwards into the trench. The beast staggered. Maerka's breathing was ragged.

The beast looked down at the large hole in its chest, blood spewing from it, then looked back at the soldiery below, a maliciously jocular grin upon its visage. As the next batch of arquebusiers fired, the Orcs swarmed over the fence like a swarm of bees—only this swarm did not give you a mildly uncomfortable bump on your skin. No, they swung their mighty battle axes, chopping off the heads of the arquebusiers. Blood coated the dirt and wood of the trench like a fresh coat of paint.

Some of the Orcs did not use weapons, instead picking up soldiers, relishing their screams as they tore off their armour and ripped their stomachs open with their teeth. They gnawed and chewed at the organs gleefully like dogs that had just gotten a treat. As more and more Orcs filled the trench, almost no Kharani were left visible to the terrified Pikewomen.

"Charge them!" Maerka said while galloping her horse around the formation; her second-in-command charged around the swordswomen. The Pikewomen did not move at first, but as the Orcs approached, they had no other choice but to charge. The steel points of their pikes sank into the green flesh by an inch or two, then stopped as though they had struck the oak of an old-growth tree.

"Hold!" Maerka screamed. For half a moment, they did. Then an Orc seized two pikes beneath his arms and hauled. Two women were ripped bodily out of formation. A gap opened in the square, and that was all that was needed. A few of the Orcs guffawed, breaking the pikes in half and swishing their axes against the Pikewomen. Swish! Swish! Swish! Heads flew everywhere. The grass below became one large pool of crimson and organs that had been freshly harvested. The swordswomen fared no better.

"Close the gap." One of the soldiers, her gait laggard and uneven, looked over at Maerka. Maerka almost recoiled when she saw the eyeball dangling down near her chest like a ball attached to a cord.

"With who?" the soldier said. Maerka looked around. The trench had fallen. The arquebusiers were gone. Half the pikes were broken. The swordswomen were being pushed backward one body-length at a time. Maerka looked toward the western road. No reinforcements. Of course not. All she could do was sit atop her horse and watch the carnage.

While some of the Kharani soldiery were able to cut off an arm of an Orc, blind them, or kill them, there were simply too many of the enemy, and soon, only Maerka and her second-in-command remained.

"Quick!" Nareth said.

"We need to retreat!" Silence.

"Maerka." Silence.

"There should be another Avion camp near—""No."

"What?"

"We are staying. I am not dishonouring my women by abandoning them."

"Maerka, they are already with the Great Mother; you cannot help them."

"It is not about that!" Maerka said.

"It is about honour; it is about standing with my fellow women."

"You can't stand with the dead."

"I can and I will, and I suggest—" Nareth galloped away. Maerka stared at her incredulously. Her heart sank. Nareth Vaul—the woman who had stood by her at Tamerus, taken an axe to the shoulder at Vereth Ford, and once laughed while stitching her own shoulder shut—was fleeing like a dishonourable recruit only there for the coinage.

"You coward!" Maerka growled. But as Nareth was making her getaway, an Orc grabbed her by the head, and the horse disappeared into the copses. Nareth looked up at the beast: it had beady eyes—hungry eyes. It licked its lips and showed its cracked fangs. Nareth screamed as the Orc shoved her head inside its maw. Chomp! Blood splattered out of the Orc's mouth like a tomato. Maerka sat alone upon her horse and looked at the incoming horde surrounding her. The animal beneath her shivered.

The Orcs slowly closed the circle. Maerka swallowed. She drew her sword.

"O Seroth, first father, receive thy daughter—" The nearest Orc stepped forward. Baring her fangs, she kicked her horse.

"ALRIGHT, COME ON THEN, YOU GREEN BASTARD!"