The sun blazed in golden glory at its noonday height in the cloud-covered sky, peeking through a small gap. Rain came and waned all through the morning, and the Wisdoms said that it would continue in like fashion for the next few days. It was at a time when the rain had stopped, as though the sun were a sentinel that vanquished intruders before it departed once again. The clouds rolled ominously above, waiting for the sun to disappear, and thunder boomed slowly in the distance. Lightning flashed on the horizon, dying out as it reached toward the sun's peephole in the dark clouds. It was not magic; the blasted storm was nature itself.
Cursing as the sun slipped away once more, Orglek Sevenspike knew the rain would continue with time. War was not waged well in rain against the hardy Dwarves, but it was not his type to call a retreat. Men would have been different; the weak, pitiful race was usually shocked easily in harsh weather, preferring to be away in their homes when lightning flashed. But Dwarves, however, pressed on in the worst of conditions, known to win battles when the tides were entirely against them. Still, Orgluk intended to triumph over the bearded enemies, and gain an iron grip on the Barrowed Heights.
Rolling fields stretched out as far as he could see, muddy footprints scattered over the entire area in an echo of the battle. Orglek, the leader of the Orcin tribe Gala'akashan, stood in masterwork armor and a finely crafted helm, boots sinking into the wet ground. To the waist mud was splattered on him, and his helmet was caked with it as well. There was no time to be facetious about a dirtied helmet; it was war, not a ball, and the latter and cleanliness was not the Orc way. Honor was held high, but mud did not prevent honor from being held. Blood dripped from the sword he held before his face - Dwarven blood - and his gauntlets were lined with dried blood hours old. In retrospect, he glanced down at his feet were a Dwarf lay, beard caked with mud and dirt, helm and skull alike hewn partway in two. With a growl, Orgluk laughed heartily, banging his free hand against his iron clad chest. The others around him roared in unison, likewise banging fists against steel or stamping boots in the ground.
The front line had charged and pulled back many times, the Dwarves and the Orcs taking turns in each other's advance. This time, Orgulk intended to cripple their first defenses, and the cut back to take the second line. The Dwarves had beat down many of his numbers, but they had lost many in the attempt. Men would have been broken easier in this weather, Dwarves did not. And yet, Orgluk partially regretted that the storm was not his doing, but rather, nature's. He himself did not wield the dangerous albeit powerful forces beyond them, but his comrade,
Amberle Ghutshea, a powerful wizardess, as she called herself, did.
With a smirk, the Human lady dressed in blue regarded the line of Dwarves in the distance from where she stood beside Orgluk. Blonde hair cascaded to her shoulders around an ageless face, beautiful in its wholeness. She was thin and shapely, and ample bosom nearly revealed with the deep neckline; armor was not her way. She was a charmer, a seductress, wickedly apt with the Magical Arts as though to make her even more dangerous. And dangerous she was, as Orglek knew well. Orglek despised Humans, but somehow, this one he could not win a war without. Lifting her chin, Amberle regarded the Dwarves.
"They will be moving within minutes. I can see the leader making his arrangements."
"Good. Ready yourselves," he told the Orcs behind him, and they shouted off the message to others. Drums sounded from the other lines, and faint shouts of Dwarven like were raised to the wind.
Amberle brandished a sapphire staff, her element of power, and though she could pierce it into the ground, her shoes did not sink into the soil. Her thin boots went almost to her knees, and her pants were cut more than halfway up her thighs. Orglek wondered how she could bear the rain in such clothes, or ever the fire of battle, but he was cut short when shouts were raised again, matched by those of the Orcs. The Dwarven line was moving. In steel helmets and masterwork armor carrying countless axes of different shapes and types and sizes they came at a brisk walk, unlike the Men that come into battle astride great warhorses.
Orgluk beat his breastplate once again and rose his voice to the clouds above, and seeming to answer him, the first drop of the next wave of rain fell, glancing off his helm. Orgluk began to walk, and then broke into a slow run, all of the other Orcs close behind him, screaming and shouting. Amberle raced beside him on long legs, muscles stretching as she struggled not to move ahead of him. Her staff spun in a full arc between her hands, spinning on all sides of her and she whipped it around. Blue fire blazed on the tip, cutting a brilliant slice through the air the faded quickly. The rain became a downpour, mud splashing and armor wet with bucket-loads. Amberle's hair became matted down and stuck to her face; she threw her head side to side and sent her hair flowing back. And under the pouring rain, the two enemies met, Dwarves and Orcs, and battle was fought once again.
Orgluk slammed into the brawn of the battle, knocking axes aside and bringing his mighty broadsword down to hew helms in two and seperate body from limb. With a quick slash he tore a Dwarf's face open in a bloody spray, spinning to take the head from another and plunge the blade into a third's belly. Their armor was tough, he knew, but with a little force they held no resistance. His arm stung when an axe bit through his armor, thankfully not deep enough to do more damage than a scrape. With a powerful kick the Dwarf fell, leaving the axe stuck in the armor. Pulling the axe out, Orgluk sent it flying with deadly precision into another Dwarf.
Amberle kicked a Dwarf in the face, toppling him backwards, and unleashed a fire ball into one that climbed past his downed ally to get at her. Clothing and beard alike caught on fire just before it tore through his body leaving nothing. Lightning arched above, and as if to mimic it, lightning fly from her fingertips and pierced an enemy's skull.
"Where is Gorbalgand?" Orgluk shouted between blows.
"I do not know!" Amberle yelled back, finished a Dwarf with a knee to the back of the head. "Melek said that he drew back to find Simellan."
Simellan, the gunsman of the entire Orc tribe, knew the strange things called muskets, powered by odd explosive gunpowder. They had captured a stronghold of the Dwarves, and one had learned how to use the strange things. Luckily, none of these muskets had been seen as of-
A powerful gunshot rang out, thick and loud through the rain, and a round puncture appeared on the chest of an Orc beside Orgluk. He gawked for a moment, and then toppled, eyes wide. Orgluk jumped back, trying to distance himself from the shooter. It was possible that Simellan was found now, and that he might return the fire, but no other shots rang save the Dwarven marksmen. Four more and other Orcs fell, but a fourth punched through Orgleks right bicep. His sword fell from his hand as he reeled backward, gritting his teeth in pain. His scream was unheard in the fury of battle. Dwarves continued on and cut into the front line as Orcs that saw their leader retreat were shocked for long enough to be attacked.
Amberle darted to his side, daring to crouch and attempt to heal the gunshot wound. The bullet did not go all the way through, and it would be difficult to do anything permanent. However, before she could utter a word, she was kicked back by a Dwarf, her elbow stinging, as another raised an axe to strike her leader's chest. In a last, desperate attempt before the attack, she raised her staff at the Dwarf, beginning to recite the words of power that would stop their hearts in between breaths. But the axe slashed through the Orcs armor, and in the fury, Amberle dropped her incantation, only to continue on a heartbeat later, missing a single syllable in a single word. And with a flash of light, everything was gone, leaving her only a moment to realize that it was a miscast, a backfire on her part, before her world went black.
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