(Story based on an RP-PVP event on MG. Wrote 3 parts of it throughout a six month period, decided to publish it. I might write more in the future, who knows?)

Terick Baulvet

Droplets of rain pounded down on the cast iron cannons, traveling down the width of the already rusted surface of the wretched looking artillery. The bog had not been kind to the 7th Legion, and it most certainly had not been kind to their siege equipment. Although the movement of the cannons was powered by horse, the poor creatures often found themselves trapped in the mud and sometimes would fall into the water, to be torn asunder by the creatures within before they could rise.

All that was cast from the mind of Lord Commander Baulvet, it was history and his task was to live in the present, to ensure that the walls of Stonard fell. He'd given his men the orders, four positions were taken in the bog, each with a section of four cannons that would unleash their volleys in unison on the pitiful orcs. "No," Lord Commander Baulvet thought, "the orcs deserve no pity, and they will receive none from me or my cannons."

Already the siege was in place, they'd been firing for hours and sections of the wall had already begun to crumble. They had not gone unmolested, the Kor'Kron Legion had sallied forth to engage and successfully destroy the gunners and their cannons at the crossroads. The Lord Commander's nerves were still intact after hearing their death knells over the hearthstones he had given them to stay in communication with him, but he could see the fear in the eyes of the cannoneers in his section.

The Lord Commander did not see why, the bloody orcs had already attempted to take their position and the fools now laid dead several meters in front of the cannons-their flesh scorched black from Brother Sehti's spells, and several limbs hacked off from Lord Commander Baulvet's bastard sword. With that thought, he looked to Brother Sehti. Sehti was a warlock, a conjurer of demons and wielder of dark magicks-one of the few things that the Lord Commander was wary of in this world.

Brother Sehti stood there with as much dignity as was possible in the rain, his sickly green robes soaked from head to toe. The Warlock's hallow eyes met Ser Baulvet's, sending a chill down his spine and prompting him to look away. "Any means necessary," Lord Commander Baulvet told himself, "it's better to have the warlock on my side."

The Hand did not turn away those willing to sing the song of steel, so long as they had the skill. Former cutthroats and shining knights of the Light fought side by side, brothers in arms and dependant on each other for survival. Even warlocks and Knights of the Ebon Blade found a place among them. One simply did not turn away good warriors, because they have a penchant for violence or depravity. A good commander would turn that raw emotion and brutality into a weapon, to strike fear into the heart of an enemy.

"When Stonard falls," Lord Commander Baulvet thought, "I will use their bodies to fertilize the soil, and give the land to the Broken as a gift."

There would be no mercy, mercy was already offered and rejected. Before the siege, the Hand had rode to the gates of Stonard and offered them the terms of surrender-they'd need to lay down their arms and swear an oath to never take up arms against the Alliance again. Sir Baulvet almost admired their tenacity, he'd have been disappointed if they hadn't decided to resist.

This wouldn't be the first time he'd sack Stonard either, he had a troubled history with that cursed settlement. In the First War he had been one of those who marched on Stonard and Rockard, razing Rockard and dealing a heavy handed blow to Stonard. Their campaign would be doomed however, and Sir Baulvet lost someone he held in high regard during that battle.

"Section One," Lord Commander Baulvet bellowed, "load!"

Sir Baulvet watched as the cannoneers grabbed their rods, wrapping a dirty-yet dry-rag around the bore brush and shoving it into their bores. They vigorously swabbed the bore, cleaning the debris out, until confident enough to pull the shaft out and pocket the rag-in an attempt to keep it relatively dry, water in the bore would ensure a misfire. As the gunners opened their breaches to load the shot, Sir Baulvet heard splashing coming from behind.

He turned, his bastard sword raised overheard in a high guard, prepared to bring swift death upon the fool who would try to sneak up on him and his brothers. Fortunately, to his relief, it was a familiar face. Ser Baulvet recognized the little gnome as Augidget, his liaison to COGS-gnomes he had taken into the employment of his forces in the Swamp of Sorrows, due to their eccentric and often times useful tactics.

Realization of what her arrival meant caused the relief to fade quickly, if Augidget were here that meant that her section had fallen as well. His first words to her were in the form of a question, which he asked in his usual gruff tone, "did you spike the cannons, little gnome?"

Augidget nodded, speaking in a tired voice, "yes, the cannons have been rendered useless."

"Good," Sir Baulvet snapped back, gritting his teeth as he spoke, "fall in with my men, we'll need to extra security on the gun line."

The little gnome nodded, shuffling forward with her daggers swinging on her belt, creating an awkward clanging sound that slightly amused the Lord Commander. He allowed the tip of his bastard sword to rest on a rock jutting out of the marsh, folding his hands over the pommel and breathing a heavy sigh. He was tired and he had no doubt his men were tired, the march had sapped him of his energy and the skirmish with the Kor'kron had not made it any better. "The Hand's Lord Commander is getting old," he thought, a bemused grin on his visage.

"Cannons ready to fire, Lord Baulvet," screamed one of the cannoneers, in a rough voice. Ser Baulvet eyed the cannons, a man stood off to the left of each with a pike in hand. At his order, they would drop the pikes and spark the fuse on the weapon, creating a mighty roar and a few more orcish widows.

Brother Calowell took refuge behind one of the ruined ballista that laid several meters to the rear of the cannons. Lord Baulvet could hear the man praying in a soft voice, his grip tightening around his two-handed sword. Lord Baulvet shook his head, prayers would not make the walls crumble any faster, victory could only be bought with iron and blood.

The time had come to give the order; this would be the final volley before the charge. If the walls did not fall, they'd be forced to scale them and that'd make for a bloody day. Failure would not be an option though, if Stonard did not fall all of their gains would be for nothing and they need fight the Horde for months if not years in this murky hell.

The Lord Commander raised his hand skyward, tightening it into an iron fist and bringing it down with a vicious yell, "fire!"

With his order the cannoneers brought the pikes crashing down onto the cannon, sparking the fuse. In a flash the cannons bellowed, sending their payload thundering toward Stonard. The iron balls struck perfectly at a section of wall that had been struck several times before, causing it to make a shrill shriek before it's weight gave out to the overwhelming damage of the 7th Legion artillery.

Sir Baulvet's hands fold over the pommel of his bastard sword once more, a tired smile creeping onto his face as his men cheer triumphantly. They'd done it, Stonard's defenses had crumbled before their might and only one task remained- the sacking. The cheering soon faded, the men were too worn out for prolonged celebrations, everyone knew what had to be done and that they must save their strength.

"Lok'tar Ogar!"

The fearsome scream was preceded by a spear flying through the air, and through one of the poor souls on the gun line. Lord Commander Baulvet felt a familiar emotion rising from the pits of his stomach, one he would never admit to. Fear.

"To arms," Sir Baulvet boomed, lifting his mighty bastard sword above his head in a high guard. He could see the orcs and trolls already descending upon the cannoneers, they were dancing the dance of swords-a bloody waltz, where men could lose limbs and more. The Lord Commander joined them, bringing the strong of the blade down in a smooth arch and taking a troll's axe arm with it. The bastard let out a shrill shriek, collapsing onto the ground and unleashing its bowels, emitting the familiar stink of a dying foe.

A larger foe gave Sir Baulvet his attention-an orc with a battle axe the size of Baulvet's upper body-and grinned, swinging the battle axe in an upward arch which the Lord Commander had to leap backward to avoid being cut down by. Sir Baulvet stepped forward, his sword meeting the orc's second strike. He was no stranger to the infamous strength and intensity of the orcs, and this one was no different.

The sounds of swords singing around them, coupled with the screams of the dying and smell of burnt flesh did not faze Baulvet. To falter was to die, and he could not fall yet. With his weapon grinding against the orc's, Ser Baulvet took a step to the side and swept the orc's leg with his own, slamming him onto the ground and driving the point of his blade through it's skull.

Out of the corner of his eye, the Lord Commander could see Brother Calowell emerging from the rear and bum rushing a troll from behind. He pitied the creature as it was sliced in half by Calowell, the top half sliding onto the ground, still alive. Ser Baulvet looked away, shouting to his men, "no mercy, they'd show us none!"

As their dance concluded, Ser Baulvet stepped over the corpses of 7th Legion and Kor'kron alike. He turned to his surviving men, the tired wretches that they were, and spoke sternly, "come brothers, we must not relent."

The words he spoke were not his own, they'd been the words of Sir Dondal before he lead a young squire into Stonard over twenty years ago. Sir Dondal did not return from Stonard, in his place and with his bastard sword emerged Sir Baulvet, with a promise made still on his lips. The promise to never relent, to scour the Horde from the world... no matter the cost.