Some know about this project, first novel by one Aspen Lee - it is back on the editing table being looked at along with many of our other resurrected tales and dealings - hope you enjoy the taste.
The Last Orc
Fall of the Shandtowa Clan
Death crossed a barren land. A landscape punished by years
of drought brought on by an unrelenting sun. The hardened loam of a valley once
teaming with life lay crumbled in heaps. Its soil had not entertained life in
near a decade’s time. Still the sun poured its heartless rays upon an already
singed terrain. Death still rules this place once called Grayland. Spilt blood
colored the fissures of the land in a terracotta tint. Bodies still litter this
place, scattered about like fleeting memories of the long since departed.
Chapter One
The
battle raged well into the afternoon. The sun perch high overhead adding an
additional beating to the battle weary warriors. The clatter of steel and
laboring clay beneath boot and weight of armor clad Orc and troll menace (officially
referred to as the Molgold) echo through the valley and had long sense sent any
life fleeing to dark crevices or sunken caves far from harms way. Though cries
of agony flow through the valley like rumbling white water, keeping what might
otherwise been a still valley. The wails pour from both Orc and Molgold lungs
alike and was distinct from anything heard in these once docile parts. No more
would serenity prevail, the Grayland burst into battle over the Ports of the
Devil’s Spine and the Bird
Coast. All left the
valley except the dead, dying, war weary and those dispatched to fetch
reinforcements. All that is but the vultures that circle tirelessly, threading
their way between one another in the deep cerulean sky. Waiting for the
opportunity to pick at the flesh that lie baking beneath the heartless sun.
The
pre-dawn attack of the Molgold was expected but somehow the numbers were more
than even the most imaginative could have conjured. The sound of their
footsteps resonated like the din of crashing waves on a rocky coast. The coming
light was snuffed by the sheer wave of their massive numbers. Like the
unfolding wings of a raven, they covered the rising sun and battled back the
light. By all accounts a frightful and intimidating affair as they approached
from the north. Having taken the port village of Tressary,
they now marched to the capital of Shandtowa, laying waste to all in its path.
Like a virus the Molgold, foul and brooding, moved through the valley,
infecting the very land they walked across. When the halted to indulge in the
moment just before the attack, it became clear that many-many Orc and Molgold
would perish this day.
Thankfully,
the Molgold were clumsy and ill-prepared for battle against the feral and
cunning Orc. The Shandtowa Clan was well versed in combat, their prowess and
ferocity was unparalleled as was their loyalty and honor. They would stand
their ground in protection of their capital and their queen. To the last Orc,
to the last drop of their blood. The Molgold held great numbers over the Orc
and although they were disorganized and modestly equipped their numbers alone
made them formidable. This could make a lesser Orc tire or lose proficiency in
battle, of which makes them susceptible to the wave of a sword, axe or mace of
which seem never-ending.
There is
one that stands tall among the Shandtowa Clan, however. A great and legendary
warrior who has killed countless foe. The one known as Tremor, their leader who
does so with reverence and decorum but also with a hard and fast law. There is
no place in the Orc Clan for disobedience or malice towards fellow clansman and
Tremor rule to these laws is unwavering. Tremor is a vicious Orc with akin of
the deepest jade tint, stark crimson scars riddle his arms and chest from
numerous battles. His eyes burn emerald, bright against his tone but yield a
sinister glint that causes those in his presence to recoil. His chest rolls out
two to three times that of the average Orc. Bolstered by pride and impressive
muscles that jut outward and spread impressive and wide. His massive hands
encompass and constrict around whatever he grasps onto, be it the hilt of his
sword or the throat of a Molgold, his grip is without rival on than not even
the Heavens can resign.
Tremor
has not been challenged since he took the reigns of the Shandtowa Clan army. Perhaps
this is because of the way he dispatched, Vulgar from the ranks. A swift and
blood coup d'état to which he struck down his rival, not with sword or mace but
with bare hand. His arcane and demonic slaughtering of those who oppose his
clan or chose to skirt his laws, perhaps is another deterrent. Tremor is true
to the last, feared as much as he is respected but make no mistake about it,
death awaits those who defy him.
The
battle wages on.
Tremor
had dispatched a young clansman to returns to the Ashen Shore,
to bring back more able and willing Orc. Help had not arrived and he sensed
that it might not. Could this be his last stand? All the time he spent
defending his kind, to rebuild a great nation to which his clan could be proud
of, was it all to end here. Tremor dug deep and let out a howl of a great
beast. The sound drowned out the clash of steel and the cries of agony and for
a moment, the fields of blood and death stilled as all in presence halted to
revel or fear the sound that echo as if the Heaven’s carried the message. If
only for a brief moment, the silence seem to hang in the air like the sweet
smell of honeysuckle or the melodious hum from a Siren upon a longing pirate’s sigh.
The battle
returns. ...
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