Distant howling of war horns and wisps of black smoke heralded their coming long before they came into sight. A great host of orcs, though still merely a black mass, sent shivers down her spine no matter how many times she faced her enemies. Merelys clutched the hilt of her greatsword, reciting her prayers to cast away the slightest shade of doubt.
Before Merelys stood her many brothers, as solemn and still as statues carved of sturdy crystal, about fifty abreast in each line, long pikes reaching past their shoulders. On each side they were flanked by the canyon atop of which their archers and arcanists lied in wait, ready to rain stones, arrows, and magic upon their foes. It was an obvious ruse but the orcs were notorious for their recklessness. They were counting on that for it was their only hope.
The humid air had never felt as stifling and yet Merelys found ineffable solace in the calm before the coming storm. They were coming. The acrid scent of smoke reached them. She could feel the dry land shake from the trampling of countless feet. At the very front of the inevitable assault a pack of worg riders circled, raising the morale of their grunts with promises of imminent bloodshed.
'Archers!' shouted one of the Rangari captains. She could almost hear the taut strings of many longbows being drawn. 'Steady! Steady!' the same captain kept his archers in line albeit the first few worg riders were in range of their mighty bows. It was a feeble hope yet still the Draenei thought to lure more orcs into the canyon before they set their arrows and magic loose upon them. That way the savages might not even suspect they will be showered in death before it is too late. And so they waited, shrugging off the few flaming arrows sent their way. The shield wall was as solid and impregnable as the canyon itself.
Yet none of it was truly meant to wound the Draenei. The many fires, the trampling of feet, the howling of worgs, a blood-curdling warcry joined of a thousand voices. All of it was meant to demoralize the Draenei. Many villages had bent their knee and surrendered, begging mercy but they were all put to the torch. Merelys and the kin she stood among were no defenceless villagers, however. They were veterans, many of whom had faced demons, and she counted herself among those few who stood against foes thrice her size and lived to tell the tale.
The gloating worg riders finally came to form something akin to a line and rode abreast, charging to storm the lines of their foe who showed no signs of being shaken by their display of vulgar power. Merelys was afraid though, as hard as it was to admit, even to herself, and she was certain so were many of her brothers. No doubt the worgs could smell it, the way they lolled their tongues and bared their teeth in glee. 'Loose!' and suddenly the distant growls of the words were mixed with yelps as a barrage of arrows and fiery blasts carpeted the orcs and sent them to their early graves with beasts that carried them. Many charged still, arrows stuck in their sides, flesh and fur burnt both. By the time the first wave of orcs crashed into the first line of defenders they were too feeble to do anything but break against the shields and spears. The Draenei stood, unmoved, save for a spear or two that was used to finish off both worg and orc. The second wave was none the wiser, ignoring the constant pelt of spells and arrows. Some riders survived long enough to raise their terrible swords only to have a spear thrust through their armpit or neck. Some tried to retaliate by firing arrows at the Rangari above but to no effect.
Many orcs fell that day before a single draenei was even struck. For all their incredible endurance and individual prowess the orcs sorely lacked discipline to match the Draenei. For too long had they been spoiled by countless villages they pillaged. Yet despite their dying shrieks Merelys wished a far more painful end upon them all because falling in battle was too mercy for murderers and cravens. More so knowing that such death was revered in orcish culture. And so she honed her animosity like a sharp blade while waiting for her turn in line, ready to strike heads from shoulders at every twist and turn.
As strong as the Draenei were, they could not stand the assault forever. Merelys felt a thorn driven into her very heart as she saw it – a muscular orc, still atop his worg only because two spears got stuck in him, raised his own and with one mighty thrust slew one of her brothers by piercing his helmet through the visor. Finally swords were drawn and the orcs had it their way despite their losses. Yet for every orc that fell two more rose, so thirsty for blood that they would trample their own wounded just to get a taste. And a taste they got, though it was their own blood that they choked upon as the Draenei allowed their wounded to retreat in an orderly fashion to be replaced by fresher troops, keeping the orcs from pouring in.
When it was finally her turn she was more than ready. With one blow she snapped a spear, with another she sliced a hand, and with the third she hacked into a thick neck. Everything was but a blur of swords, axes, and shifting figures. The clangour of metal clashing against metal was deafening but her warrior's instinct kept her from harm even in the thick of battle. From the corner of her eye she spied her dear betrothed, dealing devastating blows with his giant hammer left and right while no crude weapon made by orc could pierce his armour no matter how strong the hand that wielded it.
By the time Merelys sobered during a brief moment of respite her armour was caked with blood as much as her sword. Everywhere she looked at least two or three orcs pressuring a single draenei. Their lines were finally broken and the countless orcish corpses were joined by some of her kin. What frightened her the most was the left flank, however, as she noticed the constant pelting of arrows had ceased from that side.
At once, she turned and ran, cutting and slashing at any orc that dared stand in her path. She was told to hold the line at any cost but there were no more lines to hold. Her instinct to protect her own overpowered her. 'Merelys!' she heard somebody shout after her though she couldn't be sure whether it was her betrothed or somebody else.
As she ascended the winding path carved into stone her fears were given a face as two roaring orcs came into view. They charged at her from above, one after the other. The first raised his crude axe, exposing his naked torso fully to her. With ease, she hastened her pace and ducked under his arm, cutting his belly open and letting him tumble down the path she came from. He left a trail of blood, tangled in his own entrails, and was shortly joined by his brother who was missing one arm.
A few struggling rangers remained, holding their own against an encroaching circle of green fiends. More draenei than orcs lay dead upon the ground. They must have been ambushed but Merelys, in her fury, had no time for such musings. She crashed right into the first orc in her path and hacked into his flesh to the very bone. The next one was just as unlucky. And yet she found herself surrounded and for all her strength and conviction even a fierce fighter like Merelys could not face so many a foe. Her blood screamed and her body hurt as she knew her brothers were dying while the jaws of this deathtrap were snapping shut, painfully slowly. The beasts surrounding her revelled in her dismay, their fat lips dripping with saliva, their hungry eyes drinking into her as if she were but a bloody piece of meat. Would she raise her greatsword to strike one a dozen others would thrust their spears right through her back and belly. In truth she did not even need to raise her sword for that. What were they waiting for? Light preserve me. Is this really it?The orcs spread suddenly to give way to their leader. Merelys could not believe she did not notice him before as he towered above the orcs. The ominous rattling of the chain he dragged gave his persona away before his height, his lean stature or his piercing yellow eyes. It was The Viper, she knew, for the horrendous chainwhip he carried claimed countless lives. Such a weapon would do little against an armoured opponent's but his was said to be deadly enough to pierce even through the thickest of breastplates, hungry to drink into the hearts of the righteous and the valiant. In battle, the thing would seem to have a life of its own, and strike as fast as a snake, hence the title. But that were only stories Merelys heard. It was time she met the Eredar face to face, bereft of solidly built muscle like his brothers, but the lean and hungry look that could rival a worg was enough to send a chill down her spine even in her fury. The orcs spread, forming a larger and looser circle, perhaps leaving large enough gaps for Merelys to slip through if she was fast enough but just as the thought crossed her mind her breastplate was nicked twice by the heavy sting of the chainwhip. The draenei had only time to gasp while her opponent grinned at her, exposing his fangs, taunting her wordlessly as if he could read her every thought. The two humiliating nicks she missed were almost playful, and that infuriated her all the more when she thought she couldn't have possibly been any angrier.
With nothing to lose, she charged right at him, shrieking most unladylike. The demon stood, allowing her to come into a close range wherein his whip would do little good but his other hand was quick to raise a bastard sword to meet her greatsword. The casualness and the ease with which he did it stung the draenei worse than any insult. She had no time for games, and so she let the arrogant demon know just how well she was trained. She slashed at him relentlessly, trying to be as unpredictable as possible. She feigned, she twirled, trying to make her opponent lunge at her and expose himself. It was of no use, Merelys discovered, as all she did was force him to back away but a step or two. All the strength she packed into her blows using both of her hands was matched by one. Once the demon nicked at her left shoulderguard, then the other. At last she exposed herself enough for him to deliver a humiliating kick right into her midriff and she was sent tumbling, her body numb and aching. With a groan, she scrambled back onto her hooves. It felt like an eternity, yet the orcs stood still, sneering at her, and her demonic rival waited graciously, brandishing his black blade. It drank the very light and where it didn't it shined dark red as if his whole sword was covered in a layer of slick blood. Perhaps it drank that too. She grit her teeth and engaged the demon once more in another deadly waltz.
Fighting orcs was easy. For all their strength they were not hard to read, especially with their large and cumbersome weapons. But the opponent she now faced was nearly unreadable, and he moved faster than anybody she had ever known. At once she felt like a little girl and old memories, unbidden, flashed before her very eyes. She was little Lys once more, huffing and puffing to prove to the master at arms that she was worth something. That she could fight despite being a girl. She felt the humiliating spanks and nicks of her trainer's wooden sword as well as the older boys, and even some other girls. Countless bruises and a few broken fingers were the price she paid for her skill. 'Learn to read your enemy,' her master kept telling her until she was sick of hearing it because it was her who was always being predictable, like a tiny plaything. Once she understood what he meant, however, she became eternally grateful to him.
That was thousands of years ago. She would have never thought she would feel this way again after slaying many foes. Too many to count. Yet here she stood, toyed with, and humiliated even worse than ever before. This was no master at arms. Her pride was the first thing he would take from her but he would take so much more. Her friends. Her family. Her honour. Her maidenhood. Everything that she stood for was at stake and she could do nothing about it. Her blows became sluggish and more predictable as time went by and the demon's taunting nicks rained upon her until she bent her knee, albeit unwillingly. The Viper kicked her once more, making her realise just how much she taxed her body. No longer would it listen to her. She was spent, her battle fought. 'No...' Lys whispered, breathless, her voice rasp as her fingers stretched for her sword but he kicked it away and one of the orcs picked it up, claiming it as his own. The black steel of The Viper's sword touched her throat. It felt icy, even after all that clashing, and almost sticky as if it were trying to leech her blood through her very skin, stealing her warmth. She found the strength to remove her helmet to look straight into the murderous eyes of her would-be killer, her long hair matted over half her face. She wanted to die like a warrior, to the sword of the one that bested her in combat. That was all she asked with that look of hers, hoping that the Eredar had a shred of honour left in him to grant her that much. He took his time gazing her without uttering a word however as if he were devouring her. Some time ago that would have disquieted her but she was past caring.
A shrill shriek of an orc broke the silence and the sword that kissed her throat was lifted. A band of Vindicators had ascended the canyon, albeit only to avenge their fallen brethren as it was too late to save them. The sudden charge was led by none other than Exarch Atrogar who made the demon step away from his betrothed. She wanted to rise and help him but her body no longer obeyed. Light preserve us. Light give him strength. Lys prayed in her thoughts. Everything around her receded into a distant blur as she watched intently how her beloved pressed the attack with his great hammer, giving the demon no chance to return and torment her with his fiendish sneer. But for all his superior fighting prowess his style was deliberate and slower than hers which did him no good. Alike a slithering serpent, The Viper eluded Atrogar's hammer with ease. To Lys' relief, however, his blade did nothing against the blessed armour of the Exarch either. So they clashed, light against darkness, and as much as Atrogar's brawn might have forced the demon into a corner, so did the demon slip past and behind him with ease, leaving only enough time for the Exarch to turn around before another flurry of blows rained down upon him. Though without result, they still battled ceaselessly, trying to find a chink in the other's armour, although in case of the Eredar it was merely figurative for he wore but a loincloth and some leather straps. Whenever she thought her beloved was about to strike the demon the animal slipped by just in the nick of time.
Would they go on until either succumbs to tiredness? She thought to herself, feeling her strength returning. Yet as she rose to sit she was snatched by a pair of strong hands, and a dagger was put against her throat once more. The stench of an orc's mouth made her wince. The men Atrogar led were defeated, albeit they left only a few foes standing. It was enough to finally make her weep in despair, and it was Atrogar's hands she wished for, not that of a greenskin she held nothing but contempt for.
Atrogar led the demon against a rock, hoping to limit his opponent's movement and have him fall to the mighty hammer. Yet again the demon slipped but this time he did not retaliate with another useless nick. The Exarch grunted as he heard a thunderous 'THWACK' and it sent his world into a tumble. The Viper had struck him with the hard pommel of his sword against the temple and although the Vindicator's helmet protected him from most harm the blunt strike was just as wounding as a deep cut in the flesh. Atrogar fought valiantly still but the demon found opportunities to whack him across his helmet again and again. 'No!' he heard Lys shout as she noticed him stagger forward like a drunk. The fight was over and he lost without a single drop of blood shed. The Exarch's knees buckled and he was knocked off his hooves with a humiliating kick across his chest. The demon loomed above him like the shadow of death, the claws of his toes scraping against the enamelled breastplate.
'Finish it, scum!' the Exarch spat at the demon in his gruff voice.
'Oh, I shall, once I decide what I would find more pleasing… to have her in front of you, or have you in front of her…' the demon retaliated in a teasing tone laced with venom. The yellow eyes flashed at Merelys who shuddered, knowing very well The Viper could make any of his threats come true. A war horn boomed in the distance. 'A pity, we are running out of time.' Unceremoniously, the demon yanked the hammer from the Vindicator's grasp, 'Bring her closer…' the orc was commanded and Lys was put on her knees beside her beloved. She could see his breastplate rising and heard his laboured breaths. She shook her head, tears streaming from her eyes.
'No… please no.' but the demon only smirked as he stepped on Atrogar's wrist and raised the hammer, bringing it down onto the Vindicator's gauntleted hand. That very instant the man's fingers were crushed in a sickly unison of bone and metal bending under the sheer weight and force of the blunt weapon. The Vindicator did not deign to make a sound to please his tormentor but Lys cried loud enough for the both of them, still pleading with her gleaming sapphire eyes but there was no mercy to be had. No. No. she thought to herself while she sobbed too hard to form words. Atrogar's armour was near-invincible against blades but large hammers could dent it. Especially his own. Both of his hands were crushed, and moments later his knees followed, leaving him a cripple in terrible pain. Still, he kept silent, giving the demon no relish in his anguish. Lys' stomach churned. Each devastating blow felt as if she were stabbed by a blade that was then twisted inside of her over and over. Atrogar turned his head, the hue of his icy blue eyes weak as he tried to comfort her while his arms, legs, and hipbones were decimated. The demon grunted in dismay as the Vindicator held his own to the very end. 'Let us leave a hole where the heart should be,' the demon winked at Lys. The last blow shattered Atrogar's sternum and then they fled, as fleeting as shadows, leaving the sobbing girl and her betrothed to their final moments. The war horn boomed again, further away.
Her brothers in arms found her later, still cradling the head of her dearest as if she were merely rocking him to sleep after a long day of hard work. She no longer sobbed, and her tears dried, leaving muddy strips along her cheeks. A friendly hand was laid on her shoulder, 'Come, Lys. It is over…' a gentle voice urged her, and that was the last she remembered of that day.