The albino orc lifted the shaman to his feet and embraced him. As he did so, the crowd roared in approval, stamping their feet until the platform shook. Even through all the noise, the elf’s desperate cries could be heard as he pulled at the leather straps that held him in place.
The cheers died out as the albino orc walked over to the captive elf. He lifted the prisoner’s face and peered into it, grasping the head as easily as if it were a grapefruit. Then he released it with a disinterested grunt.
The elf was silent now, as if resigned to his fate. The crowd watched with baited breath as the white orc was handed the piece of skin, now stretched out on a palette of wood. As he lifted it to the light, a pentacle could be seen tattooed on to the white orc’s hand, the black ink contrasting starkly with his pale skin. His fingers were tattooed as well, the tip of each fingerpad embossed with a different symbol.
The imp was lowered to the ground by his master, who stepped away and bowed low once again. The albino orc extended his hand, pointing his tattooed palm up at the sky. Then, with a deep and booming voice, the orc began to read from the skin.
‘Di rah go mai lo fa lo go rah lo . . .’
The pentacle on the orc’s palm began to glow a searing bright violet. Threads of white light materialised, a twisting umbilical cord between the shaman and the Salamander. The invisible bond that held the two together unravelled, then snapped with an audible crack.
‘Fai lo so nei di roh . . .’
But those were the last words the white orc spoke.
An elven arrow whistled through the air and speared his throat, spurting hot blood across the platform. More arrows thudded into the ranks; long, heavy shafts that were fletched with swan feathers. The orc shaman roared, but without his demon he was powerless. Instead, he rushed to the side of the fallen albino orc, trying to stem the blood that gushed from his neck.
Another hail of arrows fell, sending the orcs into disarray, milling about aimlessly as they brandished war clubs and bundles of javelins. Then, with a brassy knell, trumpets sounded from the forest and a great crowd came charging from the trees, screaming their battle cries. But these were not elves that came stampeding out of the darkness . . . they were men.
Men wearing heavy plate armour, armed with broadswords and shields, fearlessly plunging into the heart of the camp. They gave no quarter, hacking and stabbing at the orcs in a whirlwind of steel. The encampment was transformed into a charnel house, the ground thickly coated with entrails, bodies and blood. Behind them, hail upon hail of arrows flew overhead, peppering the orcs with deadly accuracy.
The orcs were no cowards. They waded into their assailants, crushing helmets and breastplates with blows from their clubs as if they were made of tinfoil. It was a desperate, vicious melee. There was no skill or tactics here – death was decided by luck, strength and numbers.
Orcs roared their defiance as the men’s blades rose and fell. Each flailing smash from their clubs sent men flying, shattering their bones to leave them crippled where they fell. The orcs fought on through the storm of arrows, snapping the shafts from their bodies and hurling them defiantly into the faces of the enemy.
The abino orc’s bodyguard carved a wide path of destruction, sending scores of opponents to their deaths. Their strength was unmatched as they ducked and weaved in the firelight, using their studded warclubs to lethal effect. They rallied other orcs behind them, bellowing orders as they took the fight to the enemy. Somehow, the orcs were now winning.
But then something stirred in the jungle, a dark mass that had been waiting just out of sight. What at first had appeared to be tree branches became antlers, tossing and jostling as they charged into the clearing. It was the elves, sitting astride giant elks, full-chested beasts with strong legs and sharpened antlers. They wore no armour, but wielded the bows that had blackened the sky with arrows not so long ago. The foremost elf held a great pennant that streamed behind them, made from green cloth with gold stitching. The broken arrow it depicted rippled as the elks stampeded over the shattered bodies on the ground.
They hit the orcs like a battering ram, the antlers impaling the front ranks and hurling them overhead. Arrows whistled into skulls and eye sockets as the elves fired nimbly from the backs of their steeds. The men cheered and followed behind, stabbing the fallen orcs who had been trampled under the charge.
The tide had begun to turn again, but it was far from over. The orcs surrounded the platform, a last knot of resistance that would not surrender. They hurled their javelins into the foray, great shafts of wood with sharpened ends that cut down elk and elf alike.