A Brutal Skirmish.

I always followed my lord of war,

No matter where that bird will soar.

Always there to serve and protect,

That forever stunning intellect.

The allied armies at Brunag were strong,

But that would not be for long.

For an alliance based only on desires,

Will very quickly expire.

Leon Mantelon The Shield of Aurellion

…..

A greyed greeney tide of tall crude iron-clad green pigmented-skinned creatures lumbered across the dusty plains wielding their crude iron weapons, a mix of pointed spears, pikes, large hacking cleavers and single-bladed axes. Massive wolves growl and drool in the heat of the steppe, their giant gaping maws filled with needle-sharp teeth that munch every now and then on raw bloodied meat of livestock and, at times, the slowly decaying dead which is thrown into their mouths by ruthless riders to accustom them to the taste of the various species that they may end up fighting.

Each creature has a muscled layer of flesh protecting them slightly and acting like natural armour while at the same time increasing their overall strength allowing even the crudest weapons to deal catastrophic damage as enemies are crushed beneath the green tide's overwhelming physical strength.

At the head of this green tide rides a 6ft 6 creature on the back of a black direwolf, its sharp red eyes looking around for prey as its rider seems to be in deep thought, his jet-black hair formed into a ponytail as furs of mighty beasts long killed cover his much more refined steel plated armour showing his martial prowess. Like the rest of his muscled, green-skinned kin, 2 short, jagged ivory tusks protruded from the corners of his mouth; however, unlike most orcs, his were capped in glistening gold and silver, showing off his high rank.

A steel cleaver was strapped to the left side of his belt. In his left hand, a steel spear shot up into the sky, while in his right hand, he held a chipped metal-studded wooden shield with a blood-red cleaver painted on its surface on a field of black, showing the heraldry of his dynasty. A short jewelled hilted jagged dagger rested across the back of his waist.

Wurgoth, the orcish man, looked absentmindedly over to the other army marching only half a mile away from his own, which was orderly, disciplined, and organised, unlike his orcs which were more of a limbering rabble than an organised army and was jealous of the many finely crafted steel swords and armours which were a rarity amongst his own people.

The orcish player's mind filled with thoughts as he stared at the quest notification he got a few hours ago after finishing his character and coming into the virtual world.

[First Dynasty History Quest Received Battle of Brunag]

[You have been sent in command of the forces of your home country, The Kingdom of Otrua, who are in a coalition with the Kingdom of Plurus against the Kingdom of Chavaria to help save the Kingdom of Nadron]

[You must defeat and destroy the detachment of the Chavarian army which has been sent to delay you before the royal capital of Nadron falls and reinforcements can be sent to aid the detachment]

Difficulty: Unknown

Quest Clear Conditions: Survive the battle and defeat the army detachment from Chavaria before reinforcements arrive.

Quest Clear Reward: Landed Noble Inheritable Dynasty Trait. Other rewards may be given depending on how the quest goes.

Quest Failure Penalty: Eradication of your Dynasty.

'We really need to discipline our armies more if we want to win wars. Overwhelming strength won't work all the time.

Wurgoth, the orcish player, was thinking to himself, looking at the rabble-like formation that his orcs were taking as his character Wurgoth was riding his black direwolf across the grassy steppe after getting a report from his scout about where this detachment army was camping and trying to think of ways to get them off the defensive hill while not making his mostly infantry-based army be exposed to the deadly cavalry of the Chavarian army.

As his army was marching and the large orc was absentmindedly riding due to being deep in thought, he began to take in the landscape. A large rounded brown hill was to his left while a bright sun shined in the blue sky as a flat grassy brown plain stretched out in front of him with no other notable landmarks.

His sporadic errand thoughts, however, were interrupted by an earthquake like vibrating in the ground, which slowly got stronger and stronger until the vibrations and shaking in the earth below turned into the thumping sound of horse hooves as red-tinted silvery figures like little spots of pixels emerged in the far distance, slowly getting closer and closer.

As the figures turned from pixels into more humanoid shapes and squinting his eyes to see past the glaring sun obstructing his view, Wurgoth observed a sea of red banners, and armoured men appeared; some banners were emblazed with a twin-headed dragon. Others showed a golden pelican as this red tide continued to thunder towards the Orcish general, who quickly ordered his men into formation, forming a wall of spears and pikes, their gleaming iron tips ready to meet whatever cavalry charge could come while other orcs armed with a mix of short bows and poorly made composite bows formed up behind nocking their arrows in preparation of a charge.

While the rabble on foot struggled to get into an organised formation, the wolf riders split off into two even groups of 5,000 to surround the approaching cavalry, starting to form an oval shape around the red riders as deep-throated battle cries from the excited bloodthirsty orcs drowned out all other sounds and, on a cart, mages activated a blue glowing crystal radiating a blue suppressive field across the battlefield.

It was when the mysterious red cavalry numbering no more than his own wolf riders turned left towards the hill, releasing their first steel-tipped arrows piercing through the throats and crude armour of his pike and spear wall each orc struck, dying in a mouthful of blood the blood seeping slowly out of their necks or through being pierced by multiple arrows sticking into their flesh that the orcish general began to change his orders as he suspiciously looked at their odd movements.

Seeing the arrows rain down like acid slowly burning through his numbers, Wurgoth retreated the exposed shieldless pikes replacing them with a spear-armed shield wall that formed up just behind their porcupine-like compatriots lying on the ground, feathered arrow shafts protruding from their bodies, surprised at their deadly accuracy.

After forming his infantry, Wurgoth slowly moved the formation forward, the archers creeping closer to the enemy behind the shield wall as they prepared to fire, a few testing shots were fired, falling just short of the enemy in front of them, their bow range no match to the glistening red armoured riders.

Leon, who was leading the 10,000 mounted archers, quickly changed his target to the fast-approaching wolf riders after seeing the stout shield wall block the arrows sticking into the slightly rotted wood of the orcish shields and seeing the first orcish arrows, which were finally in maximum range striking a few of the horses.

The orcish warcries overshadowed the horses' pained whinnies though none were killed, their hide and large bodies needing many arrows to fell them as their skilled riders sang sweet words into the ear of their suffering mounts, keeping them under control. The accuracy and power of the orcish archers were far outranked by the better-equipped veteran mounted archers of Chavaria, who quickly rode out of the range of the orcs, much to their frustration.

After nocking a final arrow, the runes now shining a faded fiery red were suppressed the strange blue field emitting from the blue crystal as Leon pulled on the string, drew it and fired, finding the neck of an orc who fell to the ground, his face crushed by the wolf riders behind as they eagerly rode to engage the approaching red riders their bodies filled with adrenaline and anger at the sight of their fallen comrades.

Seeing that the two sides were about to clash, the orcs wielding their large axes, cleavers and spears excitedly, Leon sheathed his bow replacing it with his steel spear, the red tassel acting as a beacon as he shouted.

"Form a diamond formation. We push through them towards the hill!"

A rider behind him blew a horn twice, its echoing noise reaching the whole cavalry unit, who quickly pulled out their swords as the brief engagement began. Orcish crude iron axes clashed with the long steel cavalry swords of the humans as man and orc alike were bisected due to the incredible momentum of their charges crashing into each other.

The Chavarian cavalry formed a diamond shape with the Leon at the front, his snakelike spear filled with strength as it pierces orc after orc, his skill unmatched by those around him and drawing his sword every now and then in a backslash to behead incoming wolves which try to jump up their teeth seeking his steel-clad flesh.

Others less skilled fell to the ferocity of the wolf riders, some trapped underneath their heavy mounts as riderless wolves give into their base instinct and start feasting on the fallen animals leaving the bony human for last as they naw on the heads of the screaming men as their helpless bodies turn into a wolf feasting ground.

Only a few hundred Chavarians died in the initial clash, their great skill in both the sword and riding helping them to survive the orcish onslaught as their great strength led to their crude weapons easily breaking through the lighter scaled lamellar armour of the horse archers as the diamond formation cut through the orcish line like a knife through butter. Their valiant general Leon kept morale high, seemingly untouchable as he masterfully wields his spear, killing orc after orc.

After the Diamond passed through the thin orcish line, the number of the Chavarian horse archers being double that of the lightly armed wolf riders, Leon moved himself to the back of the formation, protecting as many riders as he could, his body protesting in exhaustion as large beads of sweat pouring from his brow as he acted like a god of death and sent screaming orcs to hell.

The mounted archers at the front of the formation formed a single line at the command of a captain to allow them to shoot at their pursuers, leaving a trail of bodies as they continued their skirmish and approached the top of the hill, orcs flying off horses after being peppered with arrows while wayward riders were cut down by the unrelenting orcs.

Wurgoth watched the brutal battle unfold, a feeling of nausea overtaking him as he watched the feasting wolves and the long trail of blood and bodies that led up to the top of the nearby hill. He was also surprised at the lack of movement amongst his allies' men as they just took up defensive positions and let him take the brunt of the attack while they watched from the side and gained from the two sides fighting.

'Greedy, scheming bastards! Don't they know that we need to work together to defeat them and that killing us one by one is exactly what they want? At this rate, my dynasty will be destroyed!'

Wurgoth complained internally. A man, quick to anger, the orcish general threw his spear into the ground, the tip embedding itself into the crusty soil as his fists clenched together with vice-like strength, slightly regretting his Dynasties' and races' focus on personal strength more than leadership and strategy-based skills.

As a young teenage, anger raged within the orcish general. Focussing on the feeling of betrayal from his ally affected his mental state and ability to command.

It was only when the mounted archers went over the hill, closely followed by the wolf riders and the other 5000 wolf riders who were sent to the right of the army, began making their way up the hill that he regained his composure. Thinking back to the retreat of the Chavarian mounted archers up the hill, Wurgoth began wondering why they did not try to retreat through the plains, which would have been easier, before his eyes widened in realisation.

'Shit!'

Wurgoth thought as he realised he may have sent his men to their deaths.

"SOUND THE HORN OF RETREAT NOW!"

Wurgoth roared, and a few seconds after, a crude Viking-like horn screamed throughout the plains, signalling the retreat as the wolf riders on the hill began rushing back, but the 5000 who had followed the Chavarian mounted archers down the other side of the hill were nowhere to be seen.

"Quickly send a man to sound the horn of retreat from the hill and save whom you can. Ask those scheming Plurus ideots for support and tell them that if they don't help, we're going home!"

Wurgoth said in a panic. A feeling of immense dread overcame him as he thought to himself cryptically and kicked himself for losing his composure.

'It's a trap.'