The Battle of Blackwater: Prelude

 In Braghafen 

Rain drummed against the warped shutters of the Golden Goblin inn, and the smell of wet wool and spilled ale filled the common room. Once, the mayor of Braghafen had ruled from a tall stone tower overlooking the village square. Now that tower was a blackened ruin, burned down during the recent orc assault.

At a corner table beneath a crooked lantern sat the new mayor, Kurt Grunchild. He looked too young for the office, and at twenty years old, he was. His father had died defending Braghafen, cut down by a giant armoured orc with one eye. A few days later the villagers, grieving and desperate for leadership, had elected Kurt mayor. No one had wished to oppose the son of a fallen hero.

Kurt’s fist rested on the table, his knuckles white.

“Enough about sheep,” he snapped.

Across from him, Hans Kline adjusted his spectacles and sighed the sigh of a man who had spent decades trying to keep mayors practical.

“My lord mayor, with respect, the sheep are important. Two hundred head are still unaccounted for, the east granary roof is collapsing, and there are dead orcs clogging the river bend. If we do not remove them, the water will foul.”

“Then hire labourers,” Kurt said dismissively. “I did not summon this meeting to discuss carcasses in a stream.”

His eyes turned instead to Captain Gunther, the broad-shouldered leader of the Braghafen militia. Gunther’s grey-streaked hair and scarred face spoke of his long years as a mercenary before he had settled in the village.

“Captain, how soon can we march?”

Gunther folded his arms. “March where?”

“To find the orcs and destroy them.”

The captain’s expression did not change. “The militia is in no fit state for such a campaign. We lost men on the walls, many others are wounded, and half our armour is patched with cooking pots and scrap iron. The lads signed up to defend Braghafen, not to wander the Border Princes hunting greenskins in the wilds.”

Beside Gunther sat Adhumla Brightsoul, a travelling wizard wrapped in a blue cloak damp from the rain. He had arrived in Braghafen only the night before the orc attack, and though he had helped defend the village with his magic and crackling spells, there was something guarded in his pale eyes.

Kurt turned to him. “Surely you understand. Those monsters killed my father.”

Adhumla inclined his head slowly. “I understand vengeance better than most, Mayor Grunchild. But Captain Gunther is right. A village militia alone cannot hope to defeat a roaming orc horde.” He paused, then added with a dry smile, “A pity Braghafen is not wealthy enough to hire mercenaries.”

The room fell silent. Kurt straightened. “Mercenaries?”

Hans looked up sharply. “My lord, surely—”

Kurt cut him off. “What is the state of our finances, Hans?”

The treasurer hesitated, clearly wishing he had remained silent. “Your father was... prudent. Taxes were collected, and this year’s wool trade was exceptionally profitable. The coffers are healthy.”

“How healthy?”

Hans named a figure. Even Gunther’s eyebrows rose.

“That money is for rebuilding,” Hans insisted quickly. “The walls need repair, the tower—”

“And none of it matters,” Kurt said, “if the orcs return and finish what they started.”

Gunther rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “Mercenaries from Nuln would not come cheap. But disciplined spearmen and heavy cavalry could do what our militia cannot.”

Hans groaned softly into his hands.

Adhumla’s gaze drifted toward the rain-streaked window. Somewhere beyond the dark hills, his twin brother Timinus Blacksoul was directing the orcs like pieces on a game board. Adhumla had spent years searching for him, ever since Timinus had murdered their father and embraced the dark magic of the Daemonicum. He wanted the orcs destroyed as fiercely as Kurt did.

“Very well,” the wizard said quietly. “If this is the path you choose, then choose it wisely.”

Kurt leaned forward, fire returning to his eyes for the first time since the battle. “Captain, send word to your contacts in Nuln. Hire whoever we can afford. Braghafen will not hide behind its walls while the killers of my father roam free.”

Gunther nodded once. “I’ll send the message at dawn.”

Hans muttered something about “ruinous expenditures” and began making notes anyway.

A month later, the fields outside Braghafen were alive with movement. Rows of mercenary spearmen drilled in tight formation, their polished pikes glittering beneath the morning sun. Beyond them waited heavily armoured cavalry, warhorses stamping impatiently in the grass.

Kurt Grunchild stood on a small rise overlooking the camp. The wind tugged at his cloak, carrying the smell of steel, horse sweat, and campfire smoke. Behind him, Braghafen still bore the scars of war: patched roofs, scorched timber, and hastily rebuilt barricades. But before him stood an army.

Captain Gunther rode among the mercenaries barking orders with practiced authority. Hans Kline hovered nearby with ledgers and a permanently pained expression every time another wagon of supplies arrived. Adhumla Brightsoul stood apart from the bustle, his walking stick planted in the earth, eyes fixed on the distant hills as though he could sense dark magic stirring there.

Kurt barely noticed any of them.

In his mind he saw only the towering orc who had killed his father in the battle of Braghafen—armour slick with blood, his one good eye leering, tusked mouth roaring in triumph.

Soon, Kurt promised himself. Soon I will find you.

He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword as the mercenary banners snapped in the wind and the army prepared to march into the wild and lawless Border Princes.

Meanwhile in the Orc camp 

Deep in the lands known to men as the Border Princes, the low hills rose from the scrubland like broken teeth. At their centre stood a larger hill riddled with caves, its slopes dotted with crude huts and tents. Orc banners snapped in the dry wind, daubed with crude symbols.

General Slabgut stood outside the largest cave entrance, his thick arms folded across his chest. The one-eyed Orc scowled beneath his battered iron helm. The eyepatch covering his ruined eye seemed to itch whenever he was angry—which was often these days.

Especially after Braghafen.

He had nearly won. The village palisade had been breached; his Orcs had entered the village and hummies had died screaming. Slabgut himself had killed the hummie general in single combat before the villagers dragged the corpse away. Yet somehow, the battle had turned.

The blue-robed wizard.

That cursed human wizard had confronted Slabgut and challenged him, pitting his spells against Slabgut’s sword. The villagers had rallied. The attack had collapsed.

Then came the punishment.

Slabgut's good eye twitched as he remembered Timinus Blacksoul raising a hand and sending agony through every nerve in his body. The pain had been so terrible that the mighty Orc general had fallen to his knees, vomiting onto the cave floor while the wizard watched calmly.

The memory filled him with rage.

One day, Slabgut promised himself, he would rip the human's head from his shoulders.

A horn blast interrupted his thoughts.

Dust rose on the horizon.

"They's 'ere," grunted a nearby guard.

Slabgut watched as a column of Goblin riders emerged from the haze.

At their head rolled a chariot pulled by an enormous black boar. The beast's tusks were longer than a man's arm, and its small eyes burned with perpetual fury.

Upon the chariot stood Chief Sourgut of the Bloody Fang tribe.

The Goblin was hideous even by Goblin standards. His bow legs made him sway oddly, while his rusty chainmail rattled with every movement. A horned helmet sat crooked upon his oversized head, and a morning star hung at his side.

The chariot screeched to a halt.

Sourgut looked down at Slabgut with a sneer.

"Oi, One-Eye! I heard yer lost a battle to a bunch o' farmers."

Several Goblins snickered.

Slabgut's knuckles cracked.

"I heard yer tribe got chased off by the pointy-ears last winter."

The Goblins stopped laughing.

Sourgut's grin faded.

"They wouldn't come out of the zoggin' trees and fight fair," Sourgut grumbled.

"Stupid Goblins. Even an Orc pup knows you burn the pointy-ears' trees," retorted Slabgut.

The two glared at one another.

Finally, Sourgut spat into the dust.

"Take me ter see da wizard."

Slabgut grunted.

"Follow me."

The cave complex stretched deep into the hill.

Torchlight flickered against damp stone walls. Orc guards stood watch at every junction.

Eventually, they reached a vast chamber.

At its centre stood a crude throne assembled from looted furniture, skulls, and black iron.

Upon it sat Timinus Blacksoul.

The human wizard appeared middle-aged, though his eyes seemed far older. Crimson robes flowed around him. A neatly trimmed goatee framed his face, and a headdress of ram's horns crowned his head.

Resting upon a stone pedestal beside the throne was a black metal chest covered in impossible runes.

The Daemonicum.

Few present knew its true nature.

Fewer still would have dared approach it.

Timinus smiled thinly as Sourgut approached.

"Chief Sourgut."

"Wizard."

The Goblin gave a shallow bow.

"I hears yer need fighters."

"I require capable cavalry."

Sourgut puffed out his chest.

"Da Bloody Fangs is da finest riders in da Border Princes."

Several Goblins nodded enthusiastically.

Timinus folded his hands.

"Then perhaps we can help one another."

For nearly an hour, the negotiations continued.

Sourgut demanded gold.

Timinus offered gold.

Sourgut demanded weapons.

Timinus offered weapons.

Sourgut demanded extra gold.

Timinus agreed with surprising ease.

Eventually, the Goblin chief grinned.

"We got a deal."

"Excellent."

Timinus rose from his throne.

"There is an army of men moving through the southern valleys."

Sourgut scratched his chin.

"Lots o' men?"

"Enough."

The wizard's eyes narrowed.

"They are led by a wizard dressed in blue."

At the mention of blue, a flicker of hatred crossed Timinus's face.

Neither Goblin nor Orc noticed.

"I want that army destroyed."

Sourgut grinned.

"Dat sounds easy."

"I also want the head of the blue wizard brought to me."

"Just da head?"

"The head will suffice."

Sourgut laughed.

"Done."

Timinus smiled.

The expression never reached his eyes.

Later, after the Goblin chief had departed to prepare his warriors, Slabgut remained in the audience chamber.

The Orc watched the wizard silently for a moment.

Then he finally spoke.

"Why do we need gobbos?"

Timinus glanced up from an ancient scroll.

"Our army lacks sufficient cavalry."

Slabgut frowned.

"We got da Snortas."

"Yes."

"We got da Crushers."

"Yes."

"Dat's cavalry."

Timinus sighed.

"Not enough cavalry."

The Orc scratched his head.

That answer clearly dissatisfied him.

After a moment, he tried again.

"Do yer trust dat gobbo?"

For the first time, the wizard laughed.

It was a cold sound.

"Trust him?"

The wizard shook his head.

"I trust no one."

His gaze settled upon Slabgut.

The meaning was unmistakable.

The Orc shifted uncomfortably.

Then Timinus continued.

"Which is why Chief Sourgut will not be travelling alone."

A voice emerged from the shadows.

"Dat's right."

Captain Borgun stepped into the torchlight.

Slabgut gave an involuntary growl and bared his tusks. Borgun grinned back. Slabgut noted, with disgust, that Borgun still had all his teeth. That meant he was still young and that he was likely a good fighter. Few Orcs made it to adulthood without losing some teeth in a brawl.

The young Orc captain wore armour scavenged from a dead hummie knight and carried himself with unusual confidence.

A dangerous confidence.

"The Snortas ride with da goblins," Borgun said.

"And da Crushers," Borgun added, to show he was now in charge of two regiments even though he was only a captain.

Slabgut's good eye narrowed.

Borgun's grin widened further.

The young captain had ambition, and that made Slabgut nervous. Need to watch this one, Slabgut thought to himself.

Timinus clasped his hands behind his back.

"Captain Borgun will accompany the Bloody Fang tribe."

"To help 'em?" asked Slabgut.

The wizard smiled.

"To watch them."

Borgun chuckled.

"And if da goblin gets any funny ideas..."

He tapped the axe hanging at his belt.

He turned and looked at Timinus. "Don't worry, boss. I'll make sure that blue hummie's head is yours."

The chamber fell silent.

Beyond the cave walls, drums began to beat as Orcs and Goblins prepared for war.

Far to the south, a blue-robed wizard marched with an army of men.

And somewhere deep within his heart, Timinus Blacksoul already imagined the moment his twin brother's severed head would be laid at his feet.