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

Chapter 63: Orcs Over Orcs (3)

Orcs Over Orcs (3)

No man could doubt it once they saw this army. They could not doubt the type of being that led the twenty-thousand troops who now gathered upon the plain.

They would know that it was the King of the Orcs, a being born to rule, a being that had transcended the base nature of its species.

A tyrant born in the Blade’s Edge Mountains.

They would know that it was the Warlord.

Against his fearsome presence, the soldiers in Winter Castle were beset by a trembling fear. Knights had their martial spirit shattered. More and more mercenaries sat upon the ground, some even falling down as they covered their heads and gibbered their cowardice.

Before the battle’s advent, it already seemed to be lost.

The Warlord grabbed its banner, then, lifting that great piece of iron over its shoulders as if it was but a puny spear. A red haze streamed toward the castle and settled upon its highest spire, where the symbol of Balahard fluttered in the wind.

The Warlord pulled his shoulder back and threw his red banner. It came on like a miniature blizzard, piercing the air. With a metallic clang, it drove itself into the erstwhile flagpole of Balahard’s own insignia. As if this castle had always been his, his red heraldry fluttered upon its highest reaches.

His proclamation was clear: The King of the Orcs claimed this wintery realm as his own.

“That beast has officially declared war against our hearth and home,” the Count said with a frown, studying the soldiers. Rangers and knights were staring at the Orcish army with ashen faces and crushed spirits. Their morale had been broken to such an extent that each and every one of them doubted whether they could face the foe. Their response was natural, considering the hopeless odds they faced.

Even the four Knights of Gori were troubled by the Warlord’s presence, yet I knew those four at least would never back down.

***

“Since we have received such a gift, let us return the favor!” One of the braver knights declared. “Who is going to ascend the spire?”

Soldiers stared up at the tower upon hearing these words, and to their amazement, they saw a figure pass by window after window as he ascended the stairs.

“Tell the First Prince that someone has already gone towards the banner!” The knight shouted.

“But he is already there!”

The Count frowned, now realizing why Adrian had left them.

The First Prince stood amid the tumultuous roar of the blizzard as he cleaved straight through the haft of the Warlord’s banner.

He stood upon the spire, lifting the cloth for all to see. He stood there like a triumphal general who had claimed the enemy’s greatest treasure.

Count Bale Balahard could only admire the actions of his nephew, for he understood his intentions.

The sundering of the Balahard banner had been a final blow to the defender’s morale. Now that the Orcish banner had been desecrated in turn, the tables had been turned.

“We haven’t even killed these monsters, and already we have claimed their banner! We’re off to a good start!” The Count exclaimed as he chuckled, and then heartily laughed.

“I don’t understand this obsession with flags,” Maximilian muttered.

“Wait a minute, don’t you have to kill fifty Orcs to claim a king’s banner?” A cheeky Ranger added. “Now the captain can’t hope to keep up.”

The other Rangers all laughed upon hearing this. Still, the worry remained evident upon their faces. Even if they appreciated the First Prince’s gallant wit, they could not overcome the Warlord’s overbearing presence. Suddenly, a war horn, the horn of victory, sounded across the walls.

It was the First Prince, and he blew into it once more, several short blasts followed by a long one.

“Silent are the snowy mountain peaks and the blood-drenched walls.”

One of the knights now began to hum the song of war, and the rhythm of the verse corresponded to the blows of the horn. It was then that the knights recognized the true intention of the First Prince. They summoned their rings and began to sing the poem of war. Once more, the horn sounded, the sound itself strengthened by mana. The Wire Knights joined in song, and then the Black Lancers. Soon the tremendous sound of horn and song reverberated across the snowy fields and within the mighty walls. Hundreds of knights added their voices as the crushing presence of the Warlord gradually lifted from the souls of all. The First Prince relaxed his shoulder, no longer tense after seeing the success of his ploy.

“Adrian is surely busy today.” The Count’s voice was filled with pure admiration. Even if he had given a great speech, he would not have been able to bolster morale in such a fashion. Auras flowed freely into blades as the presence of the First Prince negated that of the Warlord.

“I think it is time to return the favor,” Count Bale Balahard stated as he took up a spear. He let the power of his four rings flow freely, took a deep breath, and threw the weapon. Its momentum matched that of the Warlord’s own thrust as the spear plunged into the Orcish ranks, killing dozens of them in a single hit as mana crashed like a vengeful wave into the beasts.

At this point in time, Vincent gave a hand signal to those beneath the wall. Quéon Lichtheim nodded and raised his hand into the air.

The Black Lancers readied their javelins. Lichteim lowered his hand calmly, and one hundred black throwing spears ascended into the sky.

They reached the zenith of their arc and plunged into the foremost ranks of the Orcs in a great, unified explosion of mana. The Orcs who were hit directly were torn asunder, while those within the radius of the shockwave were swept away. Several times the Black Lancers threw their javelins, the weapons striking into the horde of Orcs like thunder striking across open plains.

Not once did the Warlord falter. He continued to breathe deeply, his eyes clear and unwavering.

‘Rud dud dud dud dud rud dud dud dud dud.’

Orcs started to beat upon their drums.

‘Rud dud dud dud dud rud dud dud dud dud.’

Orcs started to march toward the walls.

‘Rud dud dud dud dud rud dud dud dud dud.’

Their every step fell in rhythm with the unerring beat.

The rhythm had begun at a slow pace, almost a laid back pace, yet it picked up in tempo soon enough, higher and higher, louder and louder.

As it did, the pace of the Orcish charge also increased. And they roared. They roared.

Their footsteps resounded like thunder.

The strong walls trembled to such an extent that the snow was shaken from them.

“We have the range, we’ll take care of them!”

Hundreds of Rangers took up positions along the wall.

“Draw!”

The Rangers clenched their teeth in the face of the dark green tsunami bearing toward them.

“Fire!”

They let loose as one man. The sound of strings twanging and bolts whirring came as a single thrum as hundreds of arrows darkened the sky.

Orcs in the vanguard fell to the ground in a torrent of pierced flesh and deathly wails. Those who survived were trampled to death by their onrushing comrades. Volley after volley was loosed until the Rangers had difficulty distinguishing live Orcs from the dead and until their hands were unfeeling and raw.

“Prepare the Daemon Bow!” A squad of royal infantry engineers removed a great piece of cloth that had kept the snow from the ballista’s inner workings.

“Fire!” As long and thick as a temple’s pillars, the deadly projectile sprang from the siege engine and tore through dozens of Orcs, rending them apart as they were thrust back under its immense momentum.

‘Rududu dudu dudu rududu dudu dudu.’

Despite the death that poured from Winter Castle’s walls, the advance of the Orcs had not been stemmed at all.

‘Hawooooooo… hawoooooooo!’

The sound of lupine howling washed over the walls then as Wolf Riders appeared and came to the head of the dark green waves that stormed ever on.

“Focus on the riders!” bellowed Vincent, and crossbow and bow both turned to heed this command. Hundreds of missiles thudded into the loping forms of the Wolf Riders. The beasts that were hit howled their pain as they crashed to the earth. Still, more wolves gained the wall than those that were felled. The wolves slammed into the walls and ran up their vertical surface. Two-thirds of the way up, as their paws started to slide off the frozen stone, the riders on their backs leapt from their mounts as they threw their siege hooks.

Some of these hooks were severed in flight by knights, yet there were far too many that clanged into the ramparts. The Wolf Riders vaulted onto the walls in the next instant. Soldiers and knights thrust with spear and sword, yet the Orcs had their back turned to their foe. Every single Orc had its back pierced, yet their goal was accomplished: They had sacrificed themselves to latch ladders woven from thick sinew onto the battlements.

Hundreds of these ladders now freely hung all along the wall. Knights realized the peril that these ladders posed and summoned mana into their swords, intent at severing the things. Hundreds of javelins flew from the ranked Orcs before the knights could even begin to remedy the threat. Rangers who had been firing were pierced in their droves by these spears. Some of the exiled and junior knights, not used to war, fell to these missiles as well. Only in a scant few places had the defenders been able to sever the ladders.

Rangers who had been on the edge of the wall now made their retreat as Orcs began to ascend the ladders. Knights moved from section to section in their frantic drive to cut through the siege ladders, while Orcs threw spears and axes from below to keep these very ladders intact.

Orc Warriors inevitably gained the walls. “Knights! Engage the Orc Warriors!” At Vincent’s command, the knights rushed forward as they formed their lines.

“Rangers, keep firing! Infantry, cut those ladders!” Rangers bravely neared the edge of the walls, fired into the climbing Orcs, and retreated a few steps back to reload, repeating this tactic whenever they could. The Orcs who were pierced by the arrows plummeted to the ground below.

One Ranger tarried too long and had his head split open by a thrown ax. Infantrymen and Rangers died as spear and ax pierced them.

“Well then,” was all that Bale Balahard could say as he spat upon the ground. The situation looked grim. Their defense was faltering.

The Orcs had employed their usual siege tactics, yet their sheer weight in numbers had overwhelmed the defenders.

The amount of thrown axes and spears, the number of ladders and hooks… the entire scale of the siege was far greater than ever before. So too were the mounting casualties among the men who held the wall.

“Pour it!”

Rangers obeyed as they upended vast cauldrons of oil onto the Orcs who hugged the walls below.

“Fire!”

Flaming arrows met oily Orcs. So great was the inferno that flames licked the very top of the ramparts as the Orcs screeched terribly, the flesh cooking from their bones. Some of the ladders caught fire, and many Orcs were driven from the walls by knight and infantryman in the resultant chaos.

“They have poured the oil too early,” Adrian stated as he stared at the flaming, thrashing Orcs. “They should have used it as a last resort, to give our men reprieve if they get pinned down.”

“With the sheer number of Orcs and the damage the fire did, well, there was no other choice,” Vincent stated his excuse, one that the First Prince did not see as valid.

“Perhaps,” replied Adrian. “But if you continue such a reckless waste of resources, we’ll be fighting the Orcs naked before the week is done.”

Under the walls, the Orcs were waiting for the fires to peter out.

“The situation is bad.” At these words from Adrian, the faces of the commanders darkened.

During this first day of battle, forty-eight Rangers, thirty-four Infantrymen, and seven Apprentice Knights had lost their lives.

A total of four-thousand arrows and bolts had been loosed.

Fifty cauldrons of oil had been poured.

Meanwhile, the Orcish horde remained countless.