A Dark Journey:

Synopsis: For one hundred years unceasing, Man has been made to suffer. A Dark Elf queen gathers her army with which to conquer the world. Her army of rapists are gathering forth. There are those who fight for the Humans, in their final hour, those who call themselves Black Dogs. But are they any better than the dark queen? What of the survivor, who threatens the world?

Note: This story, while not solely intending to follow Wimblegurk Brigade's challenge to the letter, will at least use the challenge in spirit and use it as a staging point. I will not be following the challenge to the letter, I am going to go for whatever I feel will make for an entertaining story. If you do not find this story entertaining, that's totally fine. Go read whatever you want to read.

For those Interested, It's mainly going to be based on the mercenary path.

Disclaimer: I Don't own any of this except for Tryggve, so please don't sue my ass.

Chapter 1: To Survive.

Purple and blue were the accompaniments to this young man's meal, the bright 'plumage' of the borage flowers gathered fresh and placed atop the bowl of porridge. This homely porridge was some strange mix of millet and barley that was then mixed with green cheese and an egg. The steam wafted all about and gathered in his nostrils, it was a scent most pleasing in the late hours of the day. The taste was more luxurious than his rations used to be, the mangy 'Black Dogs' for all their bravado and saber-rustling, were just another underfunded mercenary group who couldn't afford to supply their troops with anything more substantial than gruel. Of all of this, though, he missed the corn-ripe ale of his homeland, that brew of a glorious brown hue with the scent and flavour of mixed herbs which made it so superior to the ale found elsewhere.

His name is Tryggve, all alone in his small tent with his meal. He was once the seventh son to a family of six other siblings with his mother and father, now he was all alone. He was of 'peasant' stock, a farmer whose sole occupation rested on his father's wisdom as was taught down to him from his father's father, and from there to there from time immemorial. To each season there was a challenge and knowing when to plough and when to sow, when to plant and when to harvest were the only things to concern him.

Now, his sole occupation was of the spreading of death. Where successful harvest's and domestic products used to bring in silver and gold, a downpour of blood upon sand and dirt now yielded him the same. A farmer by his lonesome, with no prospect of a future, is by necessity a desperate man, and desperate men can be the most dangerous men of all.

His silver coins left his hands from town to village, for all the furlongs that he walked, employment could not be found, either as a farmer or a labourer. He was only fourteen. By the second week, he found his way to hopelessness. The prospect of joining his family in death entered his mind. How is it that fate could conspire to bring a hopeful family down to a single hopeless teenage boy in less than a month?

And through it all, the recollection of the rape of his mother and his two sisters, and of the killing of his father and brothers rang through his dreams. He remembered them, the orcs… who they served. Olga.

Tryggve stopped reflecting on his past when he heard the sound of laughter and foolish mockery outside of his tent. It seemed that, for as much as some mercenaries would stick together for the mutual benefit of survival, some mercenaries rather liked to prove their 'worth' outside of battle, in foolish shows and power-struggles. In all, they were Idiots muttering about him just outside of his tent-flap opening, and now they opened the tent up and formed a canopy with the loose textile hanging.

A head peeked in, and then the man came inside. Behind him came another.

"Hah, this is him? He looks like a turd from atop a shit-heaped mound!"

The second mercenary laughed at this man's rude commentary, and joined in himself. It was obvious that they wanted a fight, to prove themselves.

"It does make sense after all. How sad is it that the Black Dog recruits peasants… fucking rural, shit-eating peasants covered in shitty armour, into our group."

Tryggve wore a quilted Jack, padded through and through with a hand's thickness of wool compressed down to two fingers thick. His legs were adorned in a similar arrangement, though far less padded at only seven layers of linen quilted and then assembled together. The assortment weighed in at around twelve pounds. Perhaps, compared to an idiot covered in a leather jacket that was designed more for fashion than war, would this mercenary have a point. It was rather obvious that this particular 'mercenary', or rather a new recruit, didn't know what armour actually was.

Around his head, Tryggve wore a small fabric covering and over this covering he wore a helmet made from rope coiled around itself and then sewn together, much like as a basket is formed, that ended around Tryggve's browline. He was not wealthy nor did he have ready access to a blacksmith, and so he made-do with the materials he had to hand. Perhaps to another mercenary, another recruit, his frugality is foolish, earning him the distinction of being a 'shit-eating' peasant.

There was a third recruit who was more reluctant than the other two. "Hey, I don't want to pick a fight with this one… Why don't we go after ano..."

The first mercenary interrupted the third. "Hah, I piss on this man's face. He is only lucky in the fact that he survived that one ambush!"

Tryggve responded to the Trio by carefully dropping down his bowl of porridge to the floor, acting as though he were about to make an attempt at diplomacy. Instead, Tryggve rushed inside of their sword-range while they barely registered his physical invasion, and then Tryggve's dagger was out. With the trusty blade, Tryggve lunged the dagger through the first man's neck. He then drew the blade out and jumped back, ready to face the other mercenaries.

Tryggve wasn't an idiot, he knew that the trio planned on killing him eventually, and if he had allowed them to gang up on him, he would certainly die. But he decided to initiate first, and so he had a greater chance, so long as he was quick enough.

The second mercenary was half-way into the process of retrieving his sword from it's sheath when Tryggve intercepted this action by putting his left palm over the pommel of the mercenaries sword, and with the right palm he gripped his dagger in reverse. He levered the blade downwards and struck the second mercenary through the skull.

The dagger, so imbedded into the second's skull, prompted Tryggve to retrieve the longsword that he had gripped from the pommel.

The third, witnessing the scene with shock, was slow to act. He reacted by reaching out for his sword, but Tryggve intercepted this action by throwing the sheath of the longsword into the third's face, distracting him whilst Tryggve, with his left hand, levered the blade at an angle in which to provide him with protection from the front as well as a line towards his opponent's exposed neck. With his right hand now cleared, he put his hand over the upper portion of the hilt of 'his' sword, his wrist near-flushed against the crossguard.

However, Tryggve halted his blade short of the third's neck, and instead gave a loud roar. Tyggve then lowered the blade down on the man's neck, with the blade only touching and with no sliding motion over the neck, Tryggve then exerted pressure onto the upper third of his blade with which to push the third man back slightly. There was only a minor cut as a result of this.

Tryggve watched as the third man reacted to this display by running away in fear. Tryggve didn't really care about killing him, so much as he cared about maintaining his reputation.

"Fool's" Tryggve uttered under his tongue. Tryggve noted that the entire scene unfolded within a span of about five seconds. Two dead men and another routed in five seconds, this was a new feat for him.

Tryggve searched through the personal belongings of the two dead men, pocketing their gold and silver, leaving their corpses penniless. He then carried the corpses one at a time out of his tent, where he threw them into a nearby ravine. The other mercenaries in the camp didn't raise a word in protest as he carried the bodies on his back, as this was, while not necessarily commonplace, was nevertheless an occasional occurrence. Mercenaries sometimes came from criminal stock, and so deaths sometimes occured outside of battle, aside from that caused by disease. Say the wrong words, get in with the wrong crowd, and you could end up in a ravine just like the two.

By the time he returned back, his porridge had gone cold. He ate quietly to himself, made a quiet prayer to whomever god or goddess were listening… if they even were, then he readied himself for bed, removing his armour and his clothing first before rubbing up into the blankets. It was to be a cold, windy night, the tent-flap rustled, sending reverberations through the tent, annoying the man who tried to sleep.

This was simply the life of a mercenary. There were glories and triumphs to the whole thing, covered up by a whole load of shit. A new day would dawn, tomorrow was sure to come and life would begin anew.

There was a name for the town that Tryggve was defending, but he had forgotten it.

Tryggve's leader, the otherwise leader of the 'unproven' recruits was a man known as 'Prick-nose'... affectionately termed because he really was a prick. Also for the fact that his nose had a mole on the left side.

Tryggve did not like the fact that 'Prick-face' was as incompetent as they could possibly come, with a shitty attitude to match. How the guy got picked for the job was anyone's guess. Prick-nose was insecure around Tryggve, likely fearing that the 'newcomer' would take his job, and he certainly wanted to take it out on him.

Of course, when Tryggve received the order to take a group of twenty men and make ready to attack the demon army, at the furthermost position from the main force of Black Dog soldiers... he certainly raised his concern about it.

But, Tryggve listened. He chose twenty men, said words that would inspire their confidence.

Tryggve knew that he and the rest of his men were the meat being sent on a suicide mission, but he never voiced it to the others as that would be bad for morale. What Tryggve did know was that he, unlike 'prick-face', knew how to delay an opponent. It certainly wasn't done in a mad-dash, or if it ever was, it was a mad-dash done by professional, well-outfitted mercenaries, not recruits.

What Tryggve did instead, when out of sight, was to vagrantly defile his given order. Instead, he decided on a new course of action, one more defense-oriented. He and 'his' men ransacked through neighbouring sections of the town and established rough-shed barriers made from strewn chairs and dining tables, placed at one key point. Orcs would certainly be able to breach through them within half a minute, but during that half-minute they would be vulnerable. Lesser demon forces would take longer to break through.

First, Tryggve walked through the surrounding area and made a mental map of the positions. He selected the central street, a position with only one entry point for the enemy to come through.

Tryggve had four crossbow-equipped troops, three with hand-spanned crossbows and a fourth with a metal arbalest, these crossbowmen which he put into the tallest, central-most building of the street, at roughly four stories high. He then had some of his spearmen, about ten, formed up on two alleyways that adjoined the street. On Tryggve's whistle, the spearmen would charge up, bristling with their spearpoints, and they would form up near the barricade. Through this, with the barricade and the unexpected surprise of the spearmen, the Demon's would likely suffer casualties, more than normal, certainly more than would be caused in a mad-dash by unprepared idiots.

Four spearmen were selected to guard the central building and the crossbowmen in general. The crossbowmen would be those who would become the pinnacle to his strategy, as they would be inflicting the primary damage to the orcs, the power-houses of the demon forces. The rest were following Tryggve, aiding him in his plans.

These men listened to him and followed his orders, no doubt pleased at the prospect of not following prick-face. That said, they did not trust him either, but they listened to Tryggve and that was all he could have asked for.

But, this was not all Tryggve's plan. When one of his men found quicklime from a building site, one of the men who used to be a mason, suggested turning it into a weapon. Tryggve ordered one of his men to put the lime into ceramic jugs and distribute them to the men inside of the building, as well as two to the spearmen, one on each alleyway.

Tryggve then ordered for a wooden pole to be delivered to him as well as a given length of twine and fabric. When asked for his reasoning, Tryggve simply replied to the recruit with. "You'll have to wait and see."

Tryggve knew exactly what he was making. People called this a staff-sling. He knew this tool inherently well, he used this to ward off his sheep and lead them in the right direction, back in his old life. It would be suitably purposed then, to an act of warfare.

Just as well, by the time he had tested and finished his selected weapon, one of his men told him that the attacking force was coming. When pressed on the subject of numbers, the scout replied with. "Fifty… fifty, I think there are fifty… I don't know."

Tryggve definitely knew this was a suicide mission.

Tryggve rushed up through the street, standing outside of the central building where his crossbowmen were. He shouted up to them. "Listen to me… When you see a cloud of white smoke, I want you to focus on whatever comes out of the cloud, coughing and screaming! I want them dead!"

The crossbowmen gestured to him, then one replied back with. "We'll go'n kill us some orcs today."

Tryggve waited, waited and waited more, until he saw the force coming close to reach within his range. They were less than fifty, more likely they were twenty in number, so his 'scout' was wrong. They were also only composed of imps, scraggly, stubby creatures. They wore next to no clothing or armour, some appearing to be naked.

Tryggve announced the engagement with a single movement of his body, which was mirrored by the action of a staff moving forwards, with a sling moving alongside the staff.

A sealed pot filled with quicklime arced through the air. The demons saw it at the last instant, not looking up until one of them noticed it. They were too late anyway, as the ceramic jar shattered and sent up a cloud of quicklime dust which quickly covered up a fair portion of the opposing street.

The strange, stubby creatures hobbled their way outside of the cloud of dust. They could not see as crossbow bolts were sent flying towards them.

Tryggve wasn't paying much attention on what was going on the enemy side as he was instead occupied with finding good-sized stones and refuse to hurl the enemies way. He settled upon a brick, and sent it flying forth.

This brick went flying into the cloud of smoke, where Tryggve could not see if his projectile had hit an enemy or not.

He sent a large rock flying by this time, which hit one of the stumpy creatures. By the time he sent his fourth projectile over the barricade, the crossbowmen had loosed their second bolts, whilst the arbalester was still occupied with loading up his bow with his windlass. This form of crossbow, whilst slowest to reload, it's bolt could only be repulsed by either sheer circumstance or by the best plate armour available, and the sheer circumstance by which one might be saved is caused more by a miracle born of good luck, an utter rarity, than from anything else, except for if the bolt is delivered against armour from a terrible angle. In this case, the crossbowman should know better than to loose a bolt from such a dreadful angle on an armoured man.

Tryggve launched a fifth and a sixth projectile forward, both large rocks of nearly half a pound in weight. By his seventh projectile, the cloud had begun to clear and the ground was covered in quicklime dust. This was going to be an important factor for what he planned next, should the demons charge in like morons.

As the cloud dispersed, he saw that virtually all of the stubby creatures had retreated back, except for a few who coughed and spluttered on the ground, moaning in agony. One of these was actually armoured in armour, instead of a loincloth or nothing at all, and Tryggve inferred that this was a thing of some rank or privilege.

A new plan formed in Tryggve's mind, but he quickly stored it inside when he saw a few of the spearmen emerging out from the alleyway and started trying to spear the fallen foes after climbing over the barricade.

Tryggve shouted to these men. "Get back into the alleyway!"

"Go fuck yourself!" Was one reply, another emerged a moment later. "I'm getting some trophies out of this shit. I'm not dying for nut'in."

Tryggve stood tall over the barrier, grasping his billhook as he addressed 'his' men. "That pompous, limp-dicked, Prick-nosed man who calls himself our 'leader' may tolerate your bullshit, but if you oppose me, I'll fucking take your head. Get back into the fucking alley and wait for my whistle, this is your only warning!"

The men groaned noisily, but didn't bring it up. "What a cunt." One man replied.

Tryggve wasn't going to take action to that. He didn't care what people called him, so long as they listened to him.

Tryggve uttered a few words to himself when they were back in the alleys. "Idiots."

Tryggve walked up to the armoured imp, who hacked up violently, his throat burning, his eyes closed. "You must be important, right?"

The Imp coughed up a few times before gurgling out a reply. "Is… I is important… Glrrg."

Tryggve looked down on the Imp, those ugly, detestable creatures. "So, do you know who the leader is, then. Can you vouch for me that you can send your word to him?"

The Imp, a stupid creature, took several moments to decipher the more complex words before replying back, his tone of voice hoarse with pain. "I Important, can speak to leader, he listen. Don't hurt me!"

Tryggve pulled the Imp up to his feet and prodded him to the right direction, since he was unable to see. "Your leader, tell him that if he does not attack me with all of his forces, right now… tell him that he is a man who sucks men's cocks, a man who takes it up the asshole and enjoys it, that he is a man not fit to lead."

As the Imp began to limp down the street, Tryggve shouted to the Imp. "Oh, and be sure to say that in the presence of all of his men, too."

Tryggve smirked. As soon as the Imp gave his message, he was certain that the leader of this small band of demons would charge out immediately, especially since Tryggve's words would undermine his position as the leader if he himself reacted in anyway other than in a full-out attack. To Demon's, pride and reputation were stronger than any form of sensibility or cunning, which Tryggve hoped to exploit.

It took what might have been thirty minutes before Tryggve heard of any response from the demons.

The sound of a warhorn rang through the air. This horn bellowed harshly, it made windows shake and it made his men's stomach's fill up with a small sensation of dread.

Tryggve himself knew this sensation. Dread, anxiousness, fear. He remembered these feelings well. Whenever he saw an orc in the flesh, his heart raced and his stomach dropped, as though it were weighed down by a heavy stone. He hated orcs, completely and utterly, for everything that they had done to him, to his family… to everyone else. All that rape, death and tragedy, all that loss and suffering. All of it deadened Tryggve's remorse and strengthened his resolve. They were little better than monstrous demons and deserved only death.

Tryggve addressed his crossbowmen as he stood out on the street. "You may be the most uncouth bastard's I've met, but you better be the most accurate bastards in the world tonight as well. Our lives are riding on you."

Tryggve then walked over to the spearmen on the side and addressed them. "Only on my whistle are you allowed to come out. All of our lives are hanging on you coming out at the right time."

Tryggve quickly climbed up on top of the barricade, waiting before the demons would arrive again. He looked out at the surface of the street near to the barricade, as he and his extra men had laid down some obstacles such as turned over chairs. There was even a portion of street that was covered in tenterhooks and iron nails that had been scavenged from a textile mill and a blacksmith respectively. Tryggve's two extra men had then been assigned a post guarding the barricade. They were armed with spears, but they were also armed with staff slings that had been made within a few minutes. Their ammunition were pots filled with quicklime, but also pots that had been filled with a mixture of one part water to three parts lard.

When the Imp's and Orcs arrived, they witnessed first the barricade and the men atop it, but also the hanging bodies of Imp's hanging off from a rope of the central building. Tryggve had done this not out of cruelty, but out of the need to further anger his enemies. He didn't want them to think on anything except for anger.

The demon soldiers halted, muttering among themselves. A particularly large orc emerged from the throng of the men, he walked for some ways before stopping roughly fifty meters from the barricade.

"Who is the man who says that I get fucked by men?"

Tryggve's men all snickered, as they themselves had not heard about his message. This made Tryggve laugh himself under his breath before he made a gesture with his thumb to his chest. "I said it, Orc-man."

The Orc didn't respond with anger, but rather in a cruel manner. "When I win, Human, I will show you just how we treat your women, when I fuck you up the asshole and make you moan for my piglets. It's not gay to fuck a woman like you!"

Tryggve replied back with fire. "I know how you treat women, Orc. I know how you enjoyed it when you fucked my mother, my sisters. When you killed my brothers, my father. When I win, Orc, I will cut you into a hundred pieces, I will feed your body to the Imps you call brothers. I will burn your hovels and slaughter your children, and I will smile as I do so. This I will do, without question!"

The Orc smiled upon hearing Tryggve's story. "Hah, I wish I was the Orc who fucked your mother and sisters. They sound like true whores. You will never find them again, Human, why don't you run away like the woman you are!"

The rest of the orcs laughed. Tryggve responded with pure hatred. "When I win, Orc, when we Black-Dog's win, we will find Olga and we will kill her. We will kill every single Orc in existence. I will fucking bathe in your blood!"

The leading orc shrugged his shoulders. "Hah. I'm getting really bored. I cannot wait to turn you into my bitch. Your men on the other hand, I will slaughter them and make you watch!"

Tryggve grasped his staff sling tightly in his hands and hurled his first projectile.

The clay pot struck against a building and burst over the heads of the demon soldiers, covering them in dust and small rocks of quicklime. The four men surrounding him did the same, launching their projectiles of quicklime and covering more and more of the demon soldiers. Some covered their noses and closed their eyes, but most did not and suffered the effects of the quicklime.

The use of quicklime was going to be important for Tryggve, it would slow down the demons from charging en-masse into his barricade, whilst also impeding any ranged skirmisher or archer from engaging in the fight.

As soon as the cloud of quicklime grew too large to see, Tryggve told his men to switch to the pots filled with the water and lard mixture.

The moment that these pots broke open and hit the ground or the dust in the air, the water reacted with the quicklime and grew hot. As the water began to react, the lard in the mixture would burn hot, spit out violently and then ignite. The result of this, happening in the blink of the eye, was an explosion of fire.

The explosions were underwhelming, but the heat produced by the burning lard was extreme. Several Imp's were killed very quickly as they were smothered in flames. One orc tried to rush into the barricade, even though half of his body was covered in burning lard. He was halted from doing so when an arbalest bolt entered into his face and nearly came out of the other end. His large corpse was, luckily for Tryggve, well situated in that it prevented other chargers. This was due to the fact that they tripped on his corpse, blinded as they were by the quicklime, and they were promptly left to burn away, screaming. The smell was so horrific that Tryggve stepped over to the edge of the barrier and puked.

Things were going well for Tryggve, too well. This all changed when the cloud of quicklime dust disappeared. Then, without orders, the spearmen began to climb up the barricade and jumped off the edge, trying to avoid Tryggve, who started shouting at them to fall back. They began spearing out the dying monsters, not paying any attention to their surroundings.

They were promptly surrounded when the demons, having escaped the hellish fog within the nearby houses, emerged from the doors and cut down Tryggve's men.

Tryggve was fucked. Ten of his men were dead, he only had ten men left. He called for a hasty retreat back to the central building. Tryggve only had one final plan, to force the demons to enter into the building through its only entrance point, the door. This door was going to be defended by his spearmen. Trying to enter through the door would be made near-impossible as the clumsy orcs were too tall and would have to squat down. The Imp's, being quite placid, were not often capable as close-quarters fighters, cowardly as they were. It was Tryggve's only choice.

Once Tryggve was inside the building, he ordered for two spearmen to cover the door from the stairway, and one to cover from the first floor. In this way it would be easier for the spearman on the ground to engage any attacking Imp from crouching down and escaping the range of the spearmen from the staircase. It also allowed for multiple spears to attack from differing angles, decreasing the chances of a charger managing to get through the door.

Tryggve then proceeded up the third and then the fourth level. He did so to gain a better perspective of how things were going from out of one of the windows, whilst also allowing him to look on his crossbowmen.

His arbalester took aim through a window and targeted an orc. His quarrel struck the orc through the chest. Orc's were muscular creatures with a near leather-hard skin, which meant that steel-prodded crossbows or arbalests, javelins or specific magical spells were required to go far enough inside the body in which to sufficiently injure an orc through his organs, with any level of certainty.

The arbalest bolt, however, killed the orc within forty seconds.

One of the crossbowmen then took aim and loosed a bolt at one of the imps, getting them through the cheek and into the jaw. The Imp lived but he was put out of the fight as he fainted from blood-loss.

The rest of the crossbowmen loosed their own bolts at an orc who had just climbed atop the barrier. Whilst not being powerful enough to reach deep enough into the Orc's flesh to kill, they nevertheless embedded into his upper-left thigh and on his right pectoral, near his nipple. These would certainly impede on his ability to fight.

The barricade itself was performing exactly how he wanted it to. It was slowing down the demon forces and allowing for his crossbowmen to take shots at them whilst they tried to get over the barricade. This changed though, as the leader of the demon forces, the large demon who taunted Tryggve, began to pry apart the turned over chairs, tables and refuse that made up the fortification on the right side. It didn't take too long to make a hole into the barricade, but that was a given thing due to it's hasty and improvised construction.

An orc rushed it's way through the street as his crossbowmen were reloading. He managed to make it up to the door. He made a mad dash and broke in the closed door. Tryggve quickly ran down the stairs to oversee what was happening.

There was a dead orc at the doorway, with the door slammed down on the ground and the body crowding up the entrance. Tryggve looked to his men and raised his voice. "Stay firm… We'll win this yet."

One of the men nearly cried as he shook with fear. What was happening was pushing his men to the breaking point, as they were unskilled and untrained for this. Only experience could prepare you for this, and even then these events could push people over the edge. "Those fucking idiots… If they hadn't rushed in… We'd be fine."

Tryggve wasn't much for showing any emotion, however he did try to alleviate the man's fear. One man was as important as ever, now that the numbers were low, he couldn't risk a man unable to perform. "We hold here, now. We stand firm… we get through this hell together… then we can go back home after all this with some silver in our pouches."

It took a while, but the man stopped shaking as much as before. "My name is Henry."

Tryggve listened to the name, then responded with his own. "Tryggve, Henry. I'm going to keep you alive, If you listen. We're all getting out of here."

The man on the ground looked up at Tryggve. "Mine is Roger. I'll listen to you… I'll follow you."

The man next to Henry spoke up. "Ulric. It's not much but… I'll buy you a drink after this, Twig-vah."

"Roger, Henry, Ulric… stand firm, but don't be idiots. If you feel that you cannot hold the door any longer, get up to the second floor. The third floor has three men with spears, what you will do on the second floor is work with the men on the staircase of the third floor, just like you did here."

Ulric spoke up. "So… we're making a wall of spears, right?"

Tryggve nodded. "That's the idea."

Henry smiled, feeling more confident in Tryggve's presence. "Keep the orc's on a staircase, brilliant."

Tryggve put his left hand over Henry's right shoulder. "Stand firm. I'm going to check how things are with the others. I'll be back soon."

Tryggve learned the names of the men on the third floor. Harold, Gerald, and John. The crossbowmen were Kevin, Loran, Ben and Warrick. He gave a speech to each group, trying to bolster their morale. He was worried that they might try to escape out of a window or beg for surrender whenever the fighting got tough.

The arbalester, Ben, sent a bolt flying towards an orc. He hit the orc on the upper left arm, the bolt flying nearly all the way out except for the wooden flights, which kept the bolt in place inside of the orc's body. The orc pulled the bolt out of his arm, groaning in pain as he did so, bleeding profusely.

Tryggve provided positive feedback to Ben, trying to improve the morale further and make his men feel safer. "Just a little higher next time, Ben, get them in the chest or the head."

Tryggve moved away from the window and put more logs into the nearby fireplace. He had several ceramic jugs filled with heated water that needed to be boiled as they rested near the ashes. There was also an iron kettle that was fully boiling with stew.

An explosive sound rang out through the air, startling Tryggve.

Loran called out. "They've got a mage!"

"Help!"

Tryggve quickly picked up his billhook. He turned to the crossbowmen and raised his voice. "Whatever it takes, kill the magic-man!"

Tryggve rushed downwards. When he was on the second floor he saw the problem. The mage had opened up the doorframe by a large margin, and now his men were being swamped, Roger in particular, whose brow started to drip with sweat, no doubt caused by fear.

Tryggve held his billhook from overarm and began to walk down the stairs, prodding the front of his bill back and forth as he pushed further downwards. As he did so he looked to Roger, not overly concerned about his front as he relied on his sense of 'fuhlen' to keep him abreast of his situation. Should he feel something trying to pull or push his weapon away, he will know how to react without looking to his weapon.

Tryggve then noticed an opening when one of the orc's put too much attention onto Roger and not on him. Tryggve acted on this by rushing forwards of his position, sweeping a quick thrust into the Orc's exposed neck as he stepped in with his left foot. The attack was sound, the spike having lodged itself through his vertebrae, nearly killing the orc instantly.

Tryggve then rushed his body two steps further down the stairs and changed his stance. Not turning his head, he spoke to Roger, his attention focused on the opposing side as he weaved his billhook from overhead like an artist painting strokes on a canvas, switching from side to side to best keep the Goblins, Imps and Orc's back whilst providing a ceiling of protection with the haft of his polearm.

"Up, I'll cover you!"

Roger did that, rushing up the stairs so furiously that he nearly pushed Henry into the wall.

Now that Roger was safe, Tryggve was concerned with himself. Without looking back, he spoke. "Keep me covered."

Tryggve carefully stepped back, trying to keep his footing while not risking falling over, because if one of the orc's pressed in for an attack, Tryggve would surely lose his footing.

An arrow struck Tryggve, the force of it nearly pulling the breath from his lungs. He knew that the arrow had not pierced through his gambeson as he did not feel a cut or blood coming from his body. However, Tryggve did not look down to observe the nature of the arrow or his armour as he maintained his full focus on the opposing side, deflecting attacks aimed at the haft of his billhook and warding off any attacks focused in on him.

Tryggve saw the archer from the far side who likely shot him, and noted that it was a goblin. They, like imps, were stubby and short, but they did not have wings.

Tryggve then shouted up to his men when there was a short lull in the combat, informing them so as to keep them on the alert. "They've archers!"

Tryggve would never have considered himself a master at his craft, nor a master of the spear or the polearm, but he had the foundation upon which the recruits lacked. The recruits had the basic training of the spear while the more rural ones had additional, inherent knowledge of the axe and flail as well.

Tryggve however, learned how to grapple and wrestle. This was something that many of the other newcomers to the Black Dogs did not know. This skillset is something that many people overlook, but is ultimately important at the end of the day. A spear is great for killing at the point, but after that it is a large stick, and that large stick is a leverage point through which the inexperienced man will be killed, as he cannot defend himself for lack of knowledge in the brawl.

This point was illustrated when an orc reached in with his fist, while Tryggve was busy shouting, and using his superior strength and height, caught the haft of Tryggve's billhook and started to pull.

Most people would have instinctively tried to pull away on the stick with opposing force, which with the pull of the orc, would have put greater pressure on his footing and would have resulted in him tumbling down the stairs, but Tryggve allowed the orc to take his weapon. The orc was not expecting this, and now that he had his left hand weighed down by the weight of Tryggve's polearm, Tryggve acted.

Tryggve quickly stepped forward as he unfurled his messer. At that moment, he distracted the orc by raising his left hand and waved it high and to the left, whilst he stepped inwards with the right foot, hewing down a blow with his messer onto the orc's exposed left hand. Tryggve then retreated back before the orc could respond with his axe. With the sharpness of Tryggve's curved messer and the additional strength afforded by his footwork, the blade managed to cut off three of the orc's fingers.

Now that Tryggve was deprived of his polearm, Tryggve quickly retreated from his position. Without the advantage of range, his opponents would be that much more deadly.

When he was on the second floor, he pulled on Henry by the shoulder and gestured to him to get up from the stairs. He was the only spearmen left on the staircase of the first floor, and he was exhausted. "Henry, give me your spear and get up to the crossbowmen. Get the pots near the fireplace, fill up a bucket with the water. Now."

Henry listened. He handed over his spear and rushed up the stairs. Tryggve was about to cover the entrance to the staircase, but John raised his voice. "No, I'll keep them back. You are our leader, lead us. Don't die."

Tryggve swallowed down his pride and listened. John was right.

Tryggve retreated up to the third story, then to the fourth story. He was going to oversee the crossbowmen for a while as he took a short break to gather his breath. He rested his spear against the doorframe before sitting down on the ground.

"Fuck..." Tryggve exhaled, his breathing uneven. Ben was dead, Tryggve noticed. He had an arrow through his cheek. His other crossbowmen were phased by this, but they kept on going.

Loran spoke up as he was busy reloading his crossbow with an iron windlass. He had since taken up Ben's arbalest as his own. "We got the mage, but he took an arrow to the face. We got about four or five of 'em."

Tryggve gestured over to Loran's original crossbow. "Pass that one over."

Loran passed the butt into Tryggve's hands.

Tryggve put the nut of the crossbow into the right position before he stood up. Placing his foot into the iron-welded stirrup, he bent his back and placed both hands around the drawstring, which he pulled up all the way in small increments until it rested against the nut. Tryggve then walked over to a nearby table that had been strewn with crossbow bolts and picked one with a large cutting head.

He placed his chosen bolt into the furrow of his crossbow and then walked over to one of the windows. Before he reached it, however, Loran stopped him.

"They have archers outside, waiting for us to pop our heads out."

Tryggve ducked down. "So, do you swap from window to window to confuse them?"

Loran put his own bolt into his furrow before answering. "Nope. Whenever we are all ready to loose, I knock against the wall three times before we all take aim out of our windows. We practically loose as quickly as we can."

Tryggve offered up his suggestion. "Well, how about we do that, but we switch up the windows each time after we all loose our bolts?"

Loran grinned. "Well, it's not a bad idea."

Henry raised his voice, gaining Tryggve's attention. "I've filled the bucket, what do I do now?"

"Get down to the second floor and dump it on the fucking goblins." Tryggve replied. Henry hastily went about with his order.

Loran walked over to Ben's old window, then he knocked his hand against the wall.

Tryggve put his right thumb over his bolt while his index finger and middle finger hovered over the tickler. He waited until the third knock before popping his crossbow through the window and took aim.

Tryggve had used a crossbow before. He was not very good with it, but this was only due to not training with it for any extended period of time. He knew enough that pressing the thumb down against the bolt was the best way to keep the bolt in place as you aimed downwards, however, one had to be careful to not press too hard, or else one could risk losing the tip of their thumbs against the slap of the drawstring.

Tryggve noticed one of the goblin archers and took a quick aim, loosing quickly before pulling his crossbow out of the window, taking a step to the right. Tryggve scored a hit on the goblin, the goblin taking the bolt on the right hip. With the blades of the bolt being about two inches wide on each side, the goblin would likely bleed to death within a few minutes, as the cutting trauma would be quite extreme.

"Aggghhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

Tryggve heard screaming. He assumed that it was the sound of goblins coming 'face-to-face' with a wave of steaming-hot water.

Tryggve flicked the nut, bent back down and drew back the drawstring again. Then he selected another bolt from the table. However, he heard more screaming just as he was about to take aim.

"Help!"

Tryggve decided to investigate the source of the commotion. He dashed down the stairs. He could clearly see the problem, on the second floor. The men of the third floor were watching on the events of the second floor, too afraid as they were to act in any way.

The leader of the orc-men, the man who taunted Tryggve, had a grip on Ulric's spear. Ulric tried to hold on for dear life but he inevitably lost the unfair matchup. Ulric was promptly pulled off the staircase where he was stabbed and struck repeatedly by the host of goblins and imps, who rejoiced in killing him. Tryggve's anger grew.

His anger grew yet larger when his eyes spotted on Henry's corpse. His body was hardly recognisable after all the stab wounds. Roger was at the corner of the second floor, cowering in fear as he watched on. He didn't watch on for long, as the leader walked up to him and put him to death with his axe, stepping in as he did so. The power of an orc was like that of a boar…

"Aaaaaggggggghhhhhhhhhh!" Screamed the men behind him. They lost all heart for the fight and rushed their way up the stairs. He couldn't blame them… this was fucking terrifying. It was in-human, this orc was in-human.

Tryggve was alone… with a crossbow and his messer. Fucked, completely and utterly fucked. His heart beat like mad as he filled with adrenaline.

"Well, If it isn't the Human leader. You've done better than I expected you would. You've killed a lot of my men. But you're the only good one, the rest are shit. Once I've killed ya, I'm going 'ta hang your skull up as my fuckin' trophy."

Tryggve spoke the words deep within his heart. "Well… fuck."

When Tryggve came too, he was utterly shocked. He wasn't in some building… and he was seemingly covered in bandages. Whatever happened, he couldn't remember. He seemed to be in some tent.

"Ah… awake. You seem to be handling things well."

Tryggve reacted with an outburst, flailing around as he tried to reach for anything suitable as a weapon. He found that he could barely lift his arms. "Who the fuck are you? Where the fuck am I?"

The man spoke. "They call me Kin. You just so happen to be outside the city of Ken. You do know where that is, don't you."

Tryggve could see that the man was making a subtle joke, but he played along. "So, I'm at the famed capital, then?"

Kin didn't even look at him. Instead, he seemed to be reading from a book. "For someone who might not be so… 'cognizant'... allow me to give you a brief overview of what happened to you."

Kin smiled as he started to recite. "You… survived the impossible. Do you even know who you killed? The orc you murdered was known as 'The Defiler'. Not particularly imaginative with their names, are they… these orcs, but nevertheless, this Orc has killed hundreds upon hundreds of men."

Kin switched to a new page. "Do you even know what happened? I'll tell you. You killed him, you. However, I personally wish to know… How did you even do it? Some form of magic perhaps?"

Tryggve turned around on his pillow, trying to find a comfortable place to rest his aching neck. "Look… Kin, I don't remember. There is no fucking way I could have killed… that 'thing'... he was… fucking Inhuman. A god-damn monster. He damn-near cut Roger in half… lengthwise."

Kin smirked. "Now it is very interesting that you say that… about being Inhuman. I thought the exact same thing myself, when I saw you lying in that puddle of blood. It seems as though you ripped the orc apart with your bare hands. You defiled the 'defiler' it seems, to put it in crude terms."

Tryggve laughed. "You must be having me on,'booky'. There is no damn way I could have killed that thing with my fucking bare hands."

Kin turned to the next page. "Regardless of what may have happened, you now find yourself in Ken. You just so happen to have earned the prestigious honour of meeting with the grand lady herself."

Tryggve turned back to face Kin. "Grand lady?"

Kin turned to face Tryggve, his eyes gazing on him, as though they were trying to analyze through his soul. "Celestine, Celestine Lucullus."

Tryggve could hardly believe it. "Bullshit. This isn't a fucking joke."

Kin smirked. "This isn't a joke, nor are the words coming out of my mouth the droppings from a bull. You are going to meet with her, tonight. This is a high honour, you will be respectful and do whatever she asks of you. You represent the Black Dogs, please remember that. We can keep you safe..."

Tryggve knew exactly what Kin was trying to suggest. "Or you can figure out some way to end my life. No, I hear you, one hundred percent. But, one question… Why is she meeting with me."

Kin put his forefinger over his lip as he thought on that for a moment. "I have no idea. This is why it is so perplexing. Ahhh, It seem's even Volt wishes to meet with you."

Tryggve raised his neck slightly, even though it hurt him to do so. The man who approached him was full of stubble. He was also armoured in plate, though only on one shoulder. They were blackened, and one of the lames had a fabric covering that featured the emblem of the Black Dogs.

"So, this is the one who killed that fucking monster who's eluded me for several years?"

Tryggve sighed. "I don't remember what happened, but… I guess so."

Volt laughed. "Hah, no need to be so fucking humble. You splattered that fucker all over the walls, then you took a nice dirtnap in his blood and entrails. I don't blame you, A fight like that… you get exhausted as all hell after. There's a fucking reason I hired you, after all."

Tryggve laughed. "Well, I know I'm a good mercenary, but I'm not cut out for fighting 'those' things. I'm not even on the same league. This isn't humble, this is the truth."

Volt nodded his head in understanding. "Well, whatever. I'm still your boss, you do what I say, you fall in line without question. Kin, get the carriage and some men."

Volt laid a hand down over Tryggve's head, shaking his hair. "Looks like you are about to meet the 'lady', new-guy."

Kin spoke up. "One moment. I have a new spell I would like to try out."