I Became the First Prince: Legend of Sword's Song

Chapter 61: Orcs Over Orcs (1)

Orcs Over Orcs (1)

I had recited some verses from Adelia’s dance poem, [The Jackdaw’s Poetry].

“The day when my hunger shall be sated,

The day when my thirst shall be quenched,

That day shall never come.”

A low, keening hum reverberated throughout the immediate area. I was stunned by it, that tale of longing and despair. I had only encountered this type of verse a few times in my entire existence, despite having lived for many centuries and having witnessed countless forms of dance poetry. Adelia was staring at me. Tears flooded from her eyes, her mouth shut taught, and her hands clenched before her.

If one did not know her, the logical assumption would have been that she had been forced onto the field of battle against her will. Was there anything as unfair as her twisted destiny? It was whenever her weeping started anew that I resented myself and my role in her life. With a sigh, I placed the troll’s heart beside me and scanned over her traits.

? Adelia Bayern [Female] [18] [Maiden]

? Aptitudes: [Swordsmanship (??)-S], [Mana Response (??)-A]

? Characteristics: [Butcher] [War Mania] [Appetite] [Caring] [Tender] [Servility]

I soon realized what the newly created [Appetite] trait was, and I knew that its appetite could never be sated. This was due to the fact that [The Jackdaw’s Poetry] was a song of endless and insatiable longing.

[War Mania] and [Butcher] had been annoying and terrifying enough, yet now a trait just as bloody had been created.

I shook my head, trying to be more optimistic. There was one point of hope, at the very least.

Even if I had only heard scattered verses of it, I knew that [The Jackdaw’s Poetry] was a verse on an extraordinary level, far beyond that of regular poems. Its creation had been fortuitous, and it had made my expedition into these cold mountains worth it for another reason entirely. I was content with adding another trump card in my future battle against the Warlord. I recited these verses time after time as we continued our journey.

We had by then decided to scout the mountain for any Trolls or Ogres that dared cross our way. The Rangers conducted the grisly task of butchery, skinning the Ogres for their hide and removing the tusks of trolls. We wandered within the mountains in this manner for a few days until finally, we encountered no more elite monsters. If we wished to continue our hunt, we would need to head deeper into the range. I considered the Blade’s Edge Mountains as they stretched out before us. I stood there for quite a while.

“Let’s head back.” The Rangers visibly brightened at my words.

Many days had passed since our departure from the fortress, and I did not wish to be upon the mountain in the midst of a harsh Winter longer than what was prudent. Our descent went smoothly. Not one monster crossed our path. With Adelia having bathed in the blood of Ogre and Troll so many times, I could not fault them for fleeing before her stench.

The time finally came when we crested a familiar hill and there, on the horizon, stood Winter Castle. A group of Orcs surrounded it, with Rangers loosening arrows into their charging ranks, and with knights unleashing their mana, the blue glow from these discharges lighting up the night.

Winter Castle was the same as always, in full swing.

“What will we do?” Asked Ehrim Kiringer. I made a rough count of the Orcs. More had fallen than those who were still alive, yet those who still lived amounted to about three-hundred. “We can break through, Ehrim.” I knew that once we came within sight of the walls that the knights would open the gates for us. I had inured them to the practice of throwing the gate open and charging.

“I’ll take point. You Rangers hold the middle. Sir Ehrim, Dunham, Arwen — the rest of you — hold the flanks and our rear.”

I had ordered my party to ready themselves for battle. The knights had drawn their swords, and the Rangers had loosened the knots on their knives, the blades being in easy reach.

“Can’t we just wait here?” One of the Silver Fox mercenaries asked me, his voice trembling.

“If the Orcs retreat, they will come this way,” I told them. At my words, he readied his sword and the other his spear, though reluctantly. They were supposed to be veterans yet were afraid in a situation like this. I clucked my tongue.

As we approached the rear of their forces, I saw that the Orcs were commanded by an Orc Shaman. He had the skull of a beast as his mask and wielded a bone wand in his hand. His attention was focused upon the ramparts. I pointed at him with my blade. The knights nodded, and the Rangers found their targets, their eyes ablaze. The mercenaries merely groaned in fear.

“Go.”

* * *

Vincent shouted as he thrust his blade through an Orc’s head as it peeked over the wall. “How many remain? Hold the line! Once this day is won, you can all rest for four days!” The Orcs had pressed the Rangers hard, attacking them with waves of battle fervor. Vincent studied the battlements.

Not many Orcs had gained the walls; the blades of the knights had made sure of this. On occasion, the Orc Shaman unleashed his power, yet his impact thus far had been minimal. The Wire Knights had held the wall well, allowing the Rangers to do their duty. If things continued like this, victory would soon come, and the casualties would be minimal. The battle could not have gone smoother.

Vincent studied the field in front of the gate. Many Orcs were gathered there, clanging their axes and roaring their battle cries. If Prince Adrian had been here, he would have led a charge into those lines some time ago. Vincent shuddered; he needed to be awake. War was not a knightly game; war was not a game of chess. Chiding himself, he encouraged the Rangers to find their targets.

He could not help but cast guilty glances at the gate.

He swung his sword with renewed vigor, piercing an Orc through its mouth. Many more Orcs fell from the walls onto the corpse piles below. Still, the Orcs who climbed the battlements came on and on. They had been persistent before, yet today they exerted themselves more than usual.

“Fuck,” Vincent couldn’t help but swear. Those Orcs who had been wounded flocked around the shaman. Meanwhile, those who knew they were about to die continued their climb, proving how persistent they could be.

“That damned shaman is taking his toll on us,” Vincent said, for, despite the smooth nature of the defense, his men were still suffering losses.

He tried to formulate a better strategy as he studied the horde of Orcs. The Orcs who held the banners around their commanders suddenly started moving. A strange flash flared up among them. The Orcs who were climbing began to falter as they realized they were also facing an attack from the rear.

“The Prince has come to aid us!” A Ranger shouted. The other Rangers followed his pointing finger and saw a young man who had killed the Orc bearing the banner.

“His Majesty the Prince has returned! His Majesty has killed the shaman!” Rangers cheered upon hearing this.

“Those motherfuckers, really,” Vincent muttered with a shrug, yet was inwardly relieved. Knights and commanders, men who had survived dozens of winters in the north, were cheering on a boy who had not yet lived through one of these winters. They were cheering for him as if he was the greatest veteran among them. Vincent found it to be absurd. These men were cheering as if the lord of Winter Castle himself had returned.

“Well, it seems that His Majesty the First Prince will soon be bossing us all around,” he grumbled. “We gather at the gates! Only thirty men charge out!” The knights on the walls rushed to the gate, and Vincent ran down as well to greet the returned party. Soon the faint sound of a song was heard over the strong wind as Rangers sang of Winter Castle, and knights sang the song called The City of War. The gates ground open, and roaring Orcs rushed into the gap, yet they were immediately repulsed by knights who had summoned auras into their blades.

“You guys! No order has been given… ugh, fine. Charge!” commanded Vincent.

“Well, well,” said Maximilian as he considered the scene. From the moment that his brother had joined the battle, the morale of the troops had picked up. Exhausted Rangers fired their arrows swifter than before, and the auras of the knights burned a deeper shade of blue. Even the commanders of Winter Castle had flushed and lively faces after the close battle they had fought.

The arrows poured down in a great hail as the Orcs were swept away by the missiles. The knights bravely charged after each volley smashed into the monsters. Swords slashed into the foes, and the Orcs faltered under the assault. It had become a massacre, no longer a battle. The Orcs could bear no more as they turned tail and ran. Despite their sacrifices, the Orcs were now led by fear as they fled.

It was truly a magical scene, and it was all thanks to the sixteen-year-old Prince that the tide of battle had so quickly turned. Maximilian could not help but admire his brother. A horn sounded throughout the castle, trumpeting the victory.

“Victory is ours!” The soldiers cheered as they praised the harbinger of their victory.

The names of knights and commanders were also lauded by the rank and file, for these men had supported their soldiers like firm boulders in the face of a storm. The biggest cheer was still directed towards Adrian, however.

“We honor His Majesty, the First Prince! Long may he live!”

Maximilian paused for a moment. “Long live the First Prince!” he then shouted, joining the cheers. A Wire knight beside him regarded him with wide eyes, surprised that he had so eagerly joined in the cheering of his brother.

Amid this cheer and joy, the First Prince passed through the gates. His triumphal march as he hefted the red banner was met with even greater fanfare from the soldiers.

At that very moment, a great roar erupted from deep within the mountains. All cheering ceased as every eye turned towards the range.

All that could be seen were the snowy peaks reflected in the moonlight, yet everyone in Winter Castle felt the dire presence of something coming ever closer.

The Warlord was finally on the march.