The Veil of Stars Excert

CHAPTER SAMPLE: Not Finished Product

The sun was setting to Narbad’s right, yet somehow the sky was grey. He looked at its dull glow and swallowed his fear. Before him were many armored orcs and men. Word had reached the king and his generals that the Scannvians were launching their main assault from the South and not the North. Naturally, the majority of the Nokkviorian army was positioned on the southern wall, with a smaller force at the northern gates just in case it was needed. Narbad’s father was higher on the hill atop which Eketop sat. Haol was positioned with the senior generals; Narbad was among the infantrymen. About half-way down the grassy hill were the wooden walls that marked Eketop’s border. Narbad could see the men guarding it, preparing the tar and oil for when the attack started. He was glad he was not on the front line. The enemy would have to break through the wooden gates before they got to him, which brought Narbad a small level of comfort.

Beside him was Haim, the young orc Narbad had met the day before. Narbad had requested Haim be placed near him - having ties to one of the generals in charge had its benefits. The two were surrounded by many other of their kind. Orcs and humans were segregated as much as possible, with orcs positioned to take the brunt of the attack.

Narbad remained unsure about the entire experience. War was new to him. Some part of him still hoped that the enemy would give up after the traps and trebuchets had done their jobs. He knew they would not, but he hoped so, nonetheless.

The Scannvian invaders would not give up easily. Narbad needed to remain brave when it started. His father had taught him the importance of morale and unity in a fight. Of course, having a proper cause to fight for was also of importance, and there was little doubt of the cause propelling the orcs in this battle. The barbarians would need a lot of men if they hoped to conquer an army of orcs fighting for their freedom.

The field of men and orcs was silent; almost like a deep breath before the plunge. A mist clung to the descending field below. It wearily advanced in heavy shreds and tatters like a harbinger from the elderly wood. Still, the subtle rustlings of encroaching foes through dense underbrush inevitably appeared.

The enemy had arrived.

Uniformed in primitive attire, they chanted and howled as they lined up for battle. Many seemed to be in a mad fit of hysteria. Some ripped their furs or bit their shields, foam oozing from their chapped lips.

"Don't let their show intimidate you," Narbad warned Haim. “They are only trying to strike fear in our hearts. They are human. They bleed just like us.”

“They’re doing a good job of it,” Haim said in fear.

“They are only men, Haim. We are orcs!” Narbad roared. “I’ll have your back no matter what.” He nodded to his friend, and Haim returned the gesture.

An order was shouted from higher up the hill. Narbad made the words out: “Fire trebuchets!” Moments later, there was a loud whoosh from several locations behind him. Ceramic spheres soared through the chilled air to release their deadly contents into the forests and those hiding in them. Some balls hit the trees, exploding in trails of fire which showered on those below to devastating effect. Pieces of ceramic casing flung from the eruption and launched into many of the wild men, maiming them with wild shrapnel. Even more Scann were shredded from shrapnel created by the trees themselves under impact. As the enemy screamed and howled in reaction to the weapon of terror, the trebuchets began reloading with something far more deadly.

The barbarians regrouped just in time for the volley. This time, they managed to raise their shields in feeble defense while archers prepared at their rear deeper in the woods. When the second round of ceramic projectiles hit, the Scannvian attackers were once again launched into chaos, for this time, their plague was not only fire salts, but dehydrated feces, shells from the cruzz beetle, and a combination of local herbs. The reaction of the combined ingredients released toxic vapors into the air. The enemy erupted into wild fits of agony as their lungs, eyes, and any open wounds were immediately infected and their bodies covered with sores. (And if the rumors were to be believed, the terrifying concoction also caused instant diarrhea to those directly exposed.)

An order was given to set arrows aflame. Narbad readied his longbow, one of many others. Trails of oil in dugout ruts were ignited, and Narbad placed his laced arrowhead inside, igniting the deadly projectile in flame. While his enemy withered in pain, the order was given, and the grey sky filled with soaring orange lights.

Many barbarians met their fiery deaths as a result those burning shafts, and an even greater number were engulfed in flames by the few arrows that struck sacks of oil that the Nokkviorian army had tied to select trees before the battle had begun.

It was a massacre. A second volley of arrows was ordered, along with another barrage of trebuchet fire, but by then, the barbarians had charged forward. They were wild and fueled by their anger, just as Narbad’s father had intended.

As they barreled toward the fortified city walls, many fell to traps or were shot down by those defending the wall. Even more were set ablaze as pre-laid tails of oil were ignited. Tar was poured down upon them, as well as stones.

Narbad could hear their screams and smell charring flesh. Still, the barbarians kept their charge and managed to carry a ram to the gate. At length, they braved the arrow storm and shattered the gate. As Haol and the generals had masterfully planned, half the barbarian horde lay dead before a single soldier had clashed swords with the enemy.

Archers from higher on the hill rained down their fiery support, and the first wave of orcs rushed in. Narbad realized as the two groups clashed below just how uneasy he was. Watching men burned alive, shredded to bits, and suffocated in poisonous vapors for the first time hit him like a rock in the gut. Now, he witnessed orcs and men slaughtering one another with blades and fists. From his vantage point, he could see the death and carnage of battle: men disemboweled and orcs beheaded. The sheer horror of it happening so close stunned Narbad profoundly, and he was reminded that it would be him amidst the fighting soon enough. Narbad was startled out of his shock as a platoon of berzerker orcs were sent down to join the fray. They were elite warriors (or shock troops) who specialized in intimidation tactics and two-handed weapons. Narbad knew they were often better equipped for fighting large numbers than other infantry, and they were expected to take heavy casualties.

The berzerkers clashed with the enemy, bolstering the dwindling ranks of the vanguard and returning the tide to the orcs’ favor. Their faces were painted with red (as was the custom for berzerkers), and Narbad, for the first time, witnessed ultimate savagery. But the battle was far from over.

The foreboding sound of beating hooves caught Narbad’s pointed ears. Before he knew it, he was witnessing enemy cavalry run down any exposed soldiers, including their own men. Those orcs who had a clean shot at the horsemen, but they were few and far between.

A horn blew from the North. Its howl was stale and thin. Narbad’s platoon was ordered to fall in and stop the cavalry. Thankfully, they had just the tools to do it. Narbad eyed the hidden pikes lower on the hill while marching into position. His men needed to save those caught in the churning mess of hooves and steel.

Spheres of death and flame tipped arrows soared overhead. Narbad understood this to be a safety measure to prevent the cavalry from retreating. Still, he watched them with dread.

Swallowing his fears, Narbad marched. Haim looked more terrified than he, if that were possible. They exchanged glances and both understood what needed to be done. It was something that every orc experienced. They knew that their personal fears and dreams no longer mattered. What was important was the unified cause, no matter the necessity. Their brothers in arms were paramount, and they were being slaughtered below. Whatever moral hesitation they previously held, the necessary actions were now justified for that united cause. Their hearts prepared, Narbad and Haim landed on the field of battle ready to become what they were born to be: Gesú’s mightiest warriors.

The screams of the dying no longer instilled fear in his head. Instead, they brought rage and the strength of an orc.

The horsemen were upon them. Waiting until the final moment possible, so that their spears remained hidden, they set the butts of the weapons firmly in the ground. When the time came, they raised the long wooden shafts that Narbad had worked so long to make, and the enemy horses barreled right in.

At Narbad’s front, a dark brown horse plowed forward, skewering itself on the sharpened branch. It whined and neighed as the wood pierced its flesh and punctured its lung. The man atop it tumbled off from the sudden stop. The scene was repeated, and orcs rushed from behind in practiced movements to finish the dismounted invaders. Amidst the dirt and blood, Narbad stared as the man before him was struck in the head with a mace. His face caved in with a dull crack, and he lay very still.

Archers fired at those who remained, and the cavalry retreated. Soon after, the Scann infantry advanced in unordered groupings. Narbad’s heart sank to his gut with fear, but for only a moment. He released his pike as the impaled horse died upon it and refilled his empty hands with shield and axe; the weapon for which he had traded his sword before the battle.

Narbad looked out at the charging horde as the orc vanguard retreated behind his platoon. Most were already bloodied, but some still held fear in their eyes, clear as day. That same fear had plagued Narbad only a few minutes earlier, but no longer. He readied himself for impact.

A call for a shield wall was sounded above the din of battle. In response, Narbad, Haim, and their comrades formed an interlocking wall of circular shields. This was a war strategy created by orcs but perfected by the humans of Nokkvior. Orcs, however, were quick learners in the art of warfare, so it did not take long for them to readjust to the technique.

“Archers!” warned the field lieutenant from behind. Narbad braced himself as the wall of wood and metal was pelted with soaring shafts. Three arrows hit his shield, one even thrusting through the wood a few inches. Narbad stared at the wicked arrowhead before his face. One or two more inches and it would have pierced him. One orc not two positions to his left had an arrow pierce through where his arm was holding the shield. It wasn’t a mortal wound by any means, but Narbad assumed it hurt quite badly by the way the orc had screamed.

Narbad dared to raise his shield a few inches, creating an opening just big enough to see through. The enemy was almost at their line.

“Stand!” ordered the field lieutenant. All orcs in the line stood, their shields with them. “Three! Two! One!”

Narbad braced for the impact, his feet positioned so that he would not be knocked over. When the clash came, it felt like he would be forced over despite his efforts, but his brothers in arms held firm and repelled the initial rush.

Orders were shouted in the orcish tongue. The language was seldom used anymore, save for military situations where they did not want their enemies knowing the orders being given.

“Drucken!” bellowed the lieutenant. The company surged, ramming their unified shields against their foes in a sudden burst. “Anschlage!” Every other shield opened, Narbad’s included.

“Here we go, Haim!" said Narbad to his friend. As his shield opened to the enemy, he hacked down with his axe. Curved steel cracked through the opposing warrior's skull and bit down to the eye. Narbad nearly lost his stomach as blood rushed out of the young man’s head like a fallen dam. The man's eye dropped, hanging by the optic nerve, and brain matter oozed from the opening, stained red with blood. The unwelcomed smell of human waste wafted to Narbad’s nose, and he vomited on the dying man.

“Falsta!” screamed the lieutenant, ordering the shields to close.

Narbad obeyed but remained wobbly. He had killed his first firar. The life leaving the man’s dangling eye and the smell of his death would forever be ingrained in the orc’s memory.

“Drucken!”

Narbad pushed timidly.

“Narbad, how was it?” asked an eager Haim.

Narbad stared at his friend, blankly.

“Anschlage!” Again, every other shield opened, only this time those who hadn’t assaulted before were the ones attacking.

Haim opened his shield and thrust his sword forward, taking an unsuspecting man in the gut. Narbad looked on as Haim’s face lightened at the victory, then changed rather suddenly.

A man, the man that should have been thrown back by Narbad’s shield, made a strike of his own. With an expression of horror, Narbad watched as poor Haim was stabbed through the throat. Haim fell a second later, hands grasping his neck as he futilely attempted to stop the flow of blood. A gurgling cough erupted from his mouth, launching scarlet fluids into the cold atmosphere. Then it stopped, and Haim lay very still. Time seemed to slow, a second lasting a minute. Narbad looked down at the wide, lifeless eyes of Haim as they stared up at him, eternally pleading for help.

Narbad couldn’t believe it. His friend was gone. They had just gotten to know each other, and now he was gone. He was dead. An entire world had ended.

The orc to Haim’s right howled for the hole to be filled. A medic and a replacement arrived only moments later.

Narbad knew it was too late to save Haim; but it was not too late to avenge him.

Adrenaline and rage boiled his blood. All the pain inside him molted into a single war cry that drove the barbarians back more than a shield wall ever could. It was then that Narbad gave himself entirely to the Power of the Orc.

Narbad swung his baleful axe, carving into the neck of his friend's killer. Gone were his revulsions to the scene. All he knew was cold, purposeful rage.

As a second foe's head flew free from his body, Narbad launched into a single-handed slaughter of the enemy. At first, his platoon leader ordered him back into the line, but after seeing that the Power had released in the young orc, he ordered his spot on the line filled and called for a general advance. This was not uncommon amongst orcs. Anytime the Power of the Orc was released in a soldier, the leader knew to fill the hole in the line and use the adrenalized orc as a psychological weapon against the enemy. If the rogue orc died, he had at least died furthering the cause of the battle.

A volley of arrows was released by the enemy in an attempt to stop Narbad, but none of the shafts made contact with the fiery orc. He used his shield and the men around him as a protection from the arrows and continued to tear through the ranks of the enemy. Seeing the prowess of the rogue warrior, many others began to give in fully to the Power. So many orcs gave in that the field lieutenant was forced to order a break of ranks. Soon, more platoons joined the slaughter, Narbad leading the charge.

Narbad circled his shield in a wide arc, bashing the face of one foe while guiding his axe toward the gut of another. Spinning around, he blocked a blow from his left. The Power working through him, Narbad locked the beard of his steel axe around the ankle of his foe. With a sharp tug, the man’s leg was pulled up, and he was thrown off balance. Narbad followed through in an instant with a mighty bash of his shield. His foe fell, and Narbad grasped one end of his shield in both hands and slammed down upon the man's face. A sickening crack pierced the sounds of battle, the shield embedding into the man’s skull. Narbad picked up a second axe from the blood-soaked ground and swung it to his right. The axe bit deep into another man’s side, carving him open from rib to heart.

“Raughhhh!” cried the son of Haol to the blood and dirt of battle. Mud coated his hair like paint, and blood moistened his face like sweat.

A sword descended rapidly, attempting to cleave Narbad’s head. The orc instinctively blocked the blade with a raised axe, looping it in the beard of the steel head, and forced it harmlessly aside. The ravenous orc punched the man in the nose, effectively sending him to rest upon the cold earth. His right axe found its way to the man's head seconds later. Undaunted, Narbad removed the weapon and charged to engage his next enemy, and an enemy was ready to meet him.

A burly, blonde beast of a man, wielding a warhammer, swung heavily at Narbad. Knowing he was unable to block the powerful weapon with a single-handed axe, Narbad ducked, slashing backhandedly during his descent. The sharpened spike on the back of his axe sliced deeply into the man’s calf, severing the tendon.

Narbad removed a chunk of corded muscle from his weapon as the man was forced to kneel before him. “Suffer in the name of Haim!” screamed the orc. He punched the man, surely breaking his nose.

The friend of Haim raised an axe to the sky and swung down upon the defeated warrior’s face with all his strength. Blood erupted from the vertical gash like a geyser as the skull was split. Teeth and brain matter fell to the cold earth, and Narbad was showered in sticky crimson.

Narbad, son of Haol, was lost to grief.

He rested the axe upon the corpse’s throat and began to saw back and forth along the soft tissue. Moments later, Narbad held the head by its blonde hair and tossed it to the dirt.

Several others tried to slay the orc warrior, but all failed. Narbad utilized his axes with brutal efficiency. One axe severed a spine at the base of the neck; the other sliced a man’s throat. It appeared that the orc was untouchable.

As the battle began to die down, Narbad claimed one more victim. The unfortunate man died with nearly a dozen gashes in his back and side. As the last barbarian fell and the rest fled, an enthusiastic cheer erupted among the victorious.

Narbad, adrenaline wearing off, dropped to his knees in horror. His piercing blue eyes stared at his crimson-stained hands, the blood and mud clinging to his green skin. He knew it would never fully wash free.

He looked around the field of ravaged bodies. Did he really do this? Narbad dropped his sweaty head into his soiled hands.

The awakened orc would not be afforded the opportunity to answer that question, however; he was soon lifted from the grime by a cheering crowd. All made dramatic claims about him, stating that he had practically vanquished the enemy single-handedly and that he was a hero.

All Narbad knew for certain was that he did not feel like a hero. It was his fault that Haim had died. He had failed to push back that man.

Haim’s death played out in his mind over and over. There was no escape from the guilt. Unfortunately for Narbad, Haim was not the last of his kind that would perish that day.