Alliance Camp

Lord Uther the Lightbringer was patrolling the camp, awaiting the young prince to return from his assault on the orc base. The orcs hadn’t tested the fortifications since John had left with his men before dawn, which he took as a good sign that things were progressing smoothly for his former apprentice.

Still, though, something was bothering him about John’s recent actions, and he wasn’t sure what to make of them. First was this weird magic he was using. It had some resemblances to the healing magic used by the elven priest, though the chanting was completely different. He really wanted to ask to see these tomes and identify the source of their power. If paladins could be taught this magic, it would increase the effectiveness of both the paladin and the units they were commanding, both on and off the battlefield.

Next was more concerning. Why did he ditch his armour, his silver plates in particular? Those were like a rosary for a priest, robes and staff for a wizard, a crown for a king. John said it was because it offered more protection, but he wasn’t buying it. It would be one thing if he had added the silver plates to them, but as it stood, it appeared to him that John was having a crisis of faith. He would need to take him aside later and ask him some hard questions; they couldn’t have such a prominent member of their order openly defying their laws.

Finally, how was his magic so strong while wearing a helmet? Anytime Uther had tried in his youth, it felt like he was trying to pour his magic through a sieve. Yeah, it would go, but only at a trickle compared to what it should. Even now, as a tenth-level Paladin, he would be hard-pressed to get his Holy Light even to activate, let alone do much healing with that handicap. And there was no way in hell his resurrection spell would work.

He sighed. The King has asked him to watch over the young lad for a bit, to prepare him for the burdens of leadership before he has to take the throne. From what he could see, though, he was doing well enough on his own. His men respected him, the people seemed to adore him, and he didn’t seem to abuse his authority. There was little left to teach him at this point; he would continue to grow on his own and, with a little guidance, would make a great ruler someday.

Uther just had to figure out what was going on in the lad’s head.

Orc Ritual Grounds

“Attack!” Eh shouted, leading the charge down the narrow pass that led where they had spotted the black pillars. The footmen were stuck going four abreast, preventing them from encircling the four orcs that were blocking their advance. Two blue-skinned creatures called troll headhunters were behind the orc line, throwing wicked-looking, long-bladed spears at his men with impunity.

“Darkness,” He called out, blinding the two ranged attackers, though not before Frank took one of the spears through a gap in his armour. The man collapsed to the ground, screaming in pain, the spear sticking out of his shoulder. His fall created an opening in the defensive line for the orcs to push into, but they were foiled when one of the footmen in the second line jumped forward, closing the gap Frank had left. 

“Cover me,” John said to the dwarves around him and stepped up to the gap where the man lay. He grabbed him by his good arm, then dragged him back to the relative safety of the riflemen. He ripped off the man’s helmet and tossed it aside. “I got you, Frank. Hold on.” 

“I… think he got me. Can… you give my wife the letter-” Frank started asking John something, but he cut the not-quite-dead man off.

“Shut up, dummy, and bite down on this,” John said, shoving a piece of leather he pulled from his pocket into the man’s mouth. He couldn’t heal him with the spear still stuck in him, and it was going to hurt like a sonofabitch coming out. “Now tell me, does that taste like ball sweat or asshole?”

“Wut? HMMMGGHH!!!” Frank screamed as John pulled the spear out of his shoulder.

“Middle Heal! Cure! Heal!” John said, chanting out his spells. When he was finished, he could see the unbroken skin through the hole the spear had punched into his underpadding, fixing him up as good as new. He pulled the leather out of Frank’s mouth and pocketed it, in case someone else needed something extracted. 

“Asshole… err… Thank you, Milord.” Frank said, swearing at him but correcting himself afterwards.

“Yeah, I thought so too. Distracted you for a moment, though. Now, how are you feeling?” John asked him, though he was watching the battle again. Two of the orcs had been killed; the humans were now able to encircle the remaining two of them, working in tandem to bring them both down. So far, no one else appeared to have any injuries; it looked like it was just some superficial damage done to their armour.

“Better… Sorry, I thought I was done for.” Frank replied, rolling his shoulder.

“It’s fine, there was a good chance you might have been if I wasn’t here. Rest for a minute; the fight appears to be well in hand.” John said, handing the man his helmet back.

“Yes, Milord.”

John stood up and retrieved his rifle. Looking back at the battlefield, he just held it safely to the side, the weapon unnecessary at this time. The Alphabets were just cleaning up the two remaining trolls, the blinded beasts, cursing and screaming at being stabbed by an enemy they couldn’t see. John did not pity them; they had been capturing and torturing humans, then sacrificing them to summon demons.

“Keep pushing forward!” He called out, then started to advance himself, only pausing to help Frank stand up.

They passed the pillars without incident, the four obelisks glowing ominously but doing nothing to impede their assault. In fact, there were no more orcs until they came across a large pit, fifty or so feet across, surrounded by burning torches. In the centre, standing amongst a pile of fresh corpses was a green-skinned orc with a massive two-handed sword.

John aimed his rifle and fired, the round slamming into the orc’s chest. Or so he thought. The orc shimmered, and suddenly there were two orcs standing side by side, both howling out a war cry in unison.

“Kill them!” He commanded, and the footmen leapt to obey, running down into the pit. The dwarves took positions around the rim of the crater and began to pepper the orcs with rifle fire. 

The orcs charged at the approaching footmen and began to dance, dodging and weaving around the footmen’s strikes like they were filming a choreographed fight scene in a movie, not a life-or-death battle. They would slash at them, then dodge backwards just far enough to avoid their return strikes, then lean back in to attack them again and again. They were even deflecting some of the rifle fire with those long blades, moving faster than any being made of flesh and blood had a right to.

They were completely outclassing the footmen in every metric that mattered except for sheer numbers. However, as a famous leader of the Soviets once said, quantity has a quality all its own*, and the numbers game was starting to wear the orcs down. Slash marks formed on their arms and chest, the beasts were unable to avoid or deflect every attack from the number of footmen assaulting them. 

Eh himself rushed forward, planting his foot on the back of one of the other footmen, then leaping through the air to impale one of the orcs in the chest. The moment his sword connected, though, the orcs shimmered again, the two orcs changing position and now flanking the footmen. 

The one that teleported behind the footmen turned towards John and the dwarves and sprinted towards them, the one left behind engaging the footmen recklessly to keep their attention forward. John took a quick shot at it before dropping the rifle and drawing his sword, the weapon’s distinctive ringing easily heard over the cacophony of the battle below.

“Darkness!” John attempted to cast the spell, but like the Slave Master, this orcish blade master was immune to its effects. He didn’t have time to cast barrier on himself before the orc was on top of him, a heavy upwards diagonal slash that was aimed right at John’s neck. The attack was so quick that John barely had time to react before the sword bit into his neck, the blade slipping past his gorget and finding a gap between his helmet and the armour. 

Incredible pain shot across the right side of John’s face as the blade managed to cut the helmet’s strap and continue upwards, knocking the helmet off his head in the process. Rage blossomed within him amid the spraying blood and pain he felt, and a terrible scream burst forth from his lungs, causing even the orc to pause for a moment.

Leading with his left shoulder, John jumped forward with all the power he could muster, smashing his pauldron into the orc’s chin. It knocked its head back, stunning it for a moment. The momentum of the jump left John unbalanced, and he continued forward, knocking them both off their feet, the weight of John and his armour knocking the breath out of the orc when they hit the ground. 

With their arms tangled and its neck now exposed, John attacked with the only weapon he had available and bit into the beast’s throat. Blood gushed from the orc’s neck as John ripped a huge chunk of flesh out of it, severing its carotid artery. The orc blood had a distinctive sweet metallic taste to John, who spit the flesh out immediately, disgusted that its flesh had almost tasted good to him.

“Fuck you, beast!” John roared, driving his sword into the orc’s belly from the side, then rolled to the right, cutting through its midriff and spilling its entrails across the ground. “Let your demons eat on your soul for a sacrifice, you pig-faced-” John stopped.

That’s where he knew that taste from; it almost tasted like ham. 

He started to laugh.

He started to laugh like it was the funniest thing in the world.

His head and face were on fire; he could feel his blood pouring out of his wounded face.

He laughed some more.

He knew he had to heal himself, but he couldn’t stop.

“MILORD! Your…your… Milord, are you-” Eh, said but then John cut him off.

“Hah, the orcs, Hahaha, they taste like, Ahahhaa, they taste like pork!” John laughed.

“Milord… your face.”

“Oh yeah, I bet I am really pretty now, Hahaha, Eh, something is wrong… Hahahha, I can’t stop laughing.”

John really couldn’t stop. He was in agonising pain, and his head was feeling light from blood loss. He looked back down at the bloody corpse in front of him, the orc’s throat torn open and its guts spilled across the ground.

It wasn’t funny in the slightest, but he couldn’t stop laughing.

Not until the world went dark.

* – The quote is from Stalin, though it may have actually originated from Clausewitz or even Marx himself.  

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep