Chapter 3 – Orcish Incursions
On the Western Border…
The western woods were quiet that night, the air was pleasantly cool after the warm summer's day. The moon was full and bright in the sky. The patrol, two fauns, a centaur, and a young but large and powerful bear, walked north along the old forest path with their sensitive ears pricked. It had been five days since the attack on the gathering of stargazers, and the ordering of patrols along Narnia's western border by the High King. An old claymore, unused for years and only recently sharpened, hung from a strap along the back of the centaur opposite the breastplate which he had donned for the first time since the defeat of the White Witch. Shields adorned with Narnian lion crests were strapped to the arms of the satyrs. They too had dug their old fighting armor and weapons out of nearly forgotten chests and from the backs of wardrobes in their homes. The bear wore no armor. He had none to retrieve from his den as he had not been alive to fight in the war the others had. He had been born in the time of peace that followed under the reign of the four sons of Adam and daughters of Eve. Nevertheless, he had answered the call of his High King to defend their country from these new invaders.
Patrols like theirs now walked the western border from the northwest as far south as the Calormene desert. When the call had gone out for such armed parties and the mustering of an army, and it became known what had happenedto their fellows, the veterans of the old war against the White Witch did not hesitate to answer. Many still remembered the time of the hundred year winter, and the cruelty of the self-proclaimed "Queen of Narnia." They had no desire to suffer at the hands of another evil witch or wizard. The younger generations were not so certain, having only ever heard stories from their parents and grand-parents about those times. Like Queen Susan, many of these also questioned the wisdom and even the morality of taking up arms against a nation they didn't know in what might have been a colossal misunderstanding. Others however, like the bear, followed their elders' examples and signed up to at least walk the paths to protect their own homes and families.
It came as a surprise however when a group of minotaurs arrived to sign up. Their people had been loyal to the White Witch in the old war, and had suffered grievous losses as a result. At first the sergeant, a centaur who had been appointed to take in the new recruits, had been skeptical, the old suspicion and, yes even racism, flaring.
"How could we even trust your kind to fight under Aslan's banner?" The sergeant had questioned pointedly.
The minotaur had sneered and bared his sharp teeth at first at the insult, but then composed himself, answering, "Narnia is our home too, centaur. We were loyal to our queen, and lost. Our quarrel with you died with her. Leave it dead."
"Indeed." The centaur had answered, taken aback. "Will you swear your allegiance to Aslan, and the sons of Adam and daughters of Eve who now rule, and be willing to die in their service if necessary?" He inquired, his tone less hostile than before.
The minotaur spokesman, a muscular, eight foot tall bull wearing leather and mail, turned back to silently question those others who had come with him. Receiving nods of assent from his companions, he drew a heavy double-bladed battle-ax from a harness on his back, held the flat of his blade to his chest with his right fist and responded, "To defend our homes and our families in the service of Narnia, we will." He then added with a cheeky grin, "You forget, centaur. We've seen how your people fight. You will need real warriors if it comes to it."
The centaur sergeant's face flushed red with anger at the insult for a few moments. But then his own face broke out into a grin answering, "I suppose we may get the chance to see who is better, won't we, minotaur? Make your mark here." He pointed to the paper on the table in front of him.
The dryads of the trees to the left of the patrol were agitated, their branches and leaves restless even on a night with no breeze. The fauns, being closer in nature to their wooded kinsmen, felt it first, before the centaur or the bear.
"Hold." The one faun said quietly, holding up a hand to gesture. "Something is not right. The trees are on edge."
"I would not doubt it." The centaur replied. "All of Narnia has been on edge for a week. Archenland too. I have heard that the dwarves have already sent their reserve stores of armor and weapons to Cair Paravel on the High King's request, and are working around the clock to fashion more. It does not surprise me that the dryads would be worried. We all are."
"No, it's more than that." the faun insisted, unsheathing the sword he carried from its scabbard.
"I agree." his companion faun told them as well, following the first's example.
Sniffing the air, the bear remarked, "I smell something foul on the air, sour, like the stench of an unwashed dwarf. It's strong and close."
The centaur, taking their words well into consideration, loosed the strap from his own four foot blade and took the weapon into his own calloused hands. After a moment, and to break some of the tension, he asked the bear, "Have you ever sniffed a dwarf who has washed before?"
The bear snorted in a retort.
Then they saw them. Six creatures shaped like sons of Adam, but black as pitch and misshapen emerged from the western trees of the woods close to the forest path but still back off the path in the bushy brush. They were large and powerfully built, wielded crude, iron weapons, and wore even cruder pieces of misfitting armor which looked as though it could have been looted from a battlefield. Their faces were marked with white paint in the shape of a hand. Fangs could be seen protruding at odd angles from the lips of two of them. A third appeared to have had its eye gouged out at some point in the recent past. Three of them carried quivers full of thick black arrows, and even heavier bows that anyone but a minotaur might struggle to draw.
The orcs appeared to not have seen the patrol as of yet. One of them, the largest one, shouted something in a foul, black speech to the others which the Narnians did not understand, gesturing south and east from where they were. Its fellows replied in the same language with more gestures, waving their hands wildly as though in disagreement. The first one then snorted, and suddenly backhanded both of those that had argued with it so hard that they fell backwards, moonlight reflecting off of dribbles of black blood emanating from their mouths. Wicked, evil looking sword pointed down at their throats, the first repeated his order along with what sounded in tone like a deadly threat.
The Narnian patrol didn't make a sound as they observed them for those few moments. They had never seen such a wicked looking race in their lives. Even those races which had sided with the White Witch had some redeeming qualities to them; the dwarves their craftsmanship, the minotaurs their loyalty, the wolves their dedication to their families, and so forth. But these things called "orcs", whatever they might have been, felt twisted and unnatural to the world. Like some nightmare version of humans had been given a physical form and allowed to roam the world. What was clear about them was that it was no large invasion force, but another scouting party like those that had been described as having been seen in recent days.
The fauns raised their shields and stood in front of their comrades protectively, well aware of the bows the orcs carried, and having been briefed on the damage they could do. The centaur readied himself to charge if necessary as did the bear. They did not want to be the ones to instigate combat, but they wanted to be ready for it should the orcs do so.
Then the large one spotted them through the trees and barked in his dark language to the others who immediately scrambled for their bows. The orc whom they presumed to be their leader barked more of what sounded like orders, and those with bows began to let arrows fly at the patrol.
The first barbed shaft slammed into the shields of the fauns and broke through the metal and wood so that the sharp poisoned heads were exposed to the faun's flesh but were stopped nonetheless. Keeping their damaged shields raised so as to continue to block the onslaught, the fauns advanced at a run into the brush, and the centaur, letting out a battle cry, "FOR NARNIA!" charged into the enemy party bringing his heavy two handed blade down on the first archer's head, cleaving it's misshapen features in twain. The bear followed suit, though younger and more inexperienced with warfare than those he patrolled with. He understood quickly that the orcs did not mean to capture or merely defeat, but to murder them where they stood. His brought his huge frame down on one orc, crushing its chest with a single swipe of his paw, roaring his challenge even as the orcs planted two of their arrows in his side as he did so before turning to meet another ax wielding fiend.
The leader of the orcs met the centaur's claymore blow for blow with his own blade. The foul creature proved neither inexperienced nor untrained with a blade, and the centaur felt himself driven back even as he fought to land blows with his blade and his hooves which kicked at the thing with force enough to smash bone even through armor. The centaur could sense no fear from the orc in the combat, but only a relishing of the fight and a thirst for the centaur's blood to flow.
The two fauns engaged with the remaining two orcs who had given up their bows at close range and drew their own swords, hacking and slashing at the fauns' damaged shields. The fauns fought back hard, bashing the orcs in the face and chest with their shields and taking advantage of the momentary stunning to press their lethal attacks. But to their surprise, the orcs proved to be more competent with their weapons than they had anticipated.
The bear swiped at his own opponent again and again, charging and mauling, and taking advantage of any opening he could. But the poison on the arrowheads was doing its work, and he could feel his movements slowing. The orc's blade had made contact several times against his own fur, and he was bleeding from many gashes.
They fought hard, but the orcs appeared to be getting the upper hand, and the Narnians were tiring. The centaur was not young, and neither were the fauns. All had fought in the battle for Narnia decades ago, and knew the craft of war, but they soon realized they were outmatched by these new demons who appeared to come to that understanding too, and grinned evilly at the situation.
Then one of the orcs delivered a blow to the faun's shield which shattered it and forced him backwards onto the ground hard, only to follow it up with a blow with its ax that would certainly have been the end of the valiant soldier fighting for his land.
Suddenly, a sound like a woman's scream made up of the rustling of leaves and branches echoed around them, and the word formed that was heard in the scream was, "NOOO!"
Just as the orc was to deliver the blow, it found something grip its arm tightly like a serpent coils around its prey. The next thing the orc knew, its arm was nearly yanked from its mounting in its shoulder as the orc was dragged down towards the earth violently until it felt its bones snap and crumble under the force of being pulled into the resistant earth itself. The orc let out a vicious, and violent scream of pain until it was silenced by the loss of all the air from lungs in a chest which was no longer intact.
Around the combatants, the forest floor itself seemed to come alive with the roots of the very trees lashing out at the orcs from beneath, and the branches of the trees striking them with heavy blows from above. The dryads, the spirits of the trees around them had overcome their shock and fear at what was happening, and had joined the fight, and one dryad in particular acted with a special and visceral vengeance against the orc that had threatened the life of the faun who was more than just her friend.
The leader of the orcs, occupied with what he had believed would soon be his kill did not notice in the darkness the change in his surroundings until it was too late. Just as he saw a new opening and was bringing his own blade to bear to remove the centaur's mannish half from his equine, savoring the thought of feasting on both soon, he felt himself jerked back and up into the air by a thick root wrapping around his muscular waist, his crude sword falling from his grasp. Before he realized what was happening, his body was being slammed into the forest floor hard and repeatedly until that warrior's body went limp.
When the dryads were done with them, all that remained of the orcs, all that was visible, were severed limbs and pieces of blackened flesh and pools of oily blood among the fallen leaves and rocks.
Shaken but grateful, the faun called out to the dryad who delivered him from the killing blow, "My love! Words cannot express our gratitude!"
The dryad responded, the spirit of the tree forming a lovely woman's face in her leaves to speak with him, concern and care rustling through them, "Did the evil demon hurt you, my love?"
"I am well! But the bear is gravely wounded! Send for a healer, please! And send a message through your sisters about this incursion! Cair Paravel must know!" The faun told her.
"At once!" She responded, and the next thing which they knew was the woods around them coming alive with the chatter of the dryads through the trees as the message was passed among the trees across Narnia faster than horses could run, or perhaps even birds could fly.
In the Narnian Skies…
The wind rushed past Sir Eric's face, biting it just a bit harder than it did when he rode his horse at full gallop. But it was no horse which now bore him aloft among the clouds. His mount was golden in color from wingtip to wingtip, easily as large as a thoroughbred, with the head and forelegs of an eagle and the hindquarters of a great cat like a lion. The great griffin wore no saddle, and to have placed one on him, the knight had come to understand, would have been beneath his dignity. The griffin, who was introduced to him as Fleetfeather, agreed to bear him home to Gondor of his own accord and free will. King Edmond had politely inquired of the griffins if one might be willing to make the journey west, but the choice was left to the majestic creatures themselves. They were talking animals, and free citizens of that kingdom worthy of respect.
With what seemed like no effort at all, the griffin had appeared to clear half of his country within a few very short hours of departing from Cair Paravel on the coastline. The knight watched the landscape speed by at a great distance beneath them at what seemed like many times faster than any horse could ever run. The sight was mesmerizing to him as he watched, and he began to consider that there was no end to the amount of wonders to be found in that land. He wondered indeed if his lady wife or children, or anyone for that matter, would believe the tale which he now had to tell of the week he spent in the magical land to the far east where animals talked and four siblings ruled together at the pleasure of a divine lion. He could still hardly believe it himself.
But home itself would have to wait as his course was not for his own lands in Belfalas, but the upper tier of the white city of Minas Tirith where he was certain that the Steward of Gondor, Lord Denethor was still waiting for the news his company had sacrificed so much to gather. The message High King Peter had given him to relay to the Steward was a simple one, "You are not alone. You have friends in the east. Mordor has made an enemy of Narnia."
Much had happened in that week, and none of it was what he would have wished on those gentle and noble people. As he had feared, more orcs had crossed their western borders and lives had been lost. Only that morning before he had left, he had learned of the death of a talking bear that had succumbed to the poisons of the orcish arrows. Sir Eric had learned the bear's name had been Bristlefur, and he had been survived by his elderly mother, and younger brother and sister. It had not occurred to him before that week to mourn the death of a beast like a bear, but he could not help but mourn this one having heard of his courage in combat against the scouts from Mordor. He found himself thinking this was a bear he would like to have known. It was a thought that would have been silly to him only a little more than a week before. But not now.
There were more deaths reported which he had been present to learn of. High King Peter had ordered the formation of an army, and regular patrols along the western border. In the last two days alone, there had been no less than four skirmishes between Narnian patrols and the orcs. Three were able to rout the fiends, one was not. More than this, there had been reports of Narnians disappearing with no trace but drops of scarlet blood along the western woods. Sir Eric shuddered to think what might have happened to them. Orcs were not known to be choosy about their meat.
"Tell me whatever you can about these 'orcs,' please, Sir Eric." The High King had asked him the day before after receiving the new reports from the west. "What they are, where they come from, what hurts them. Anything which we might be able to use to understand our enemy."
They had been standing in an open portico overlooking the beach. The knight's own clothing and mail had been returned to him cleaned, repaired, and looking better than they had when he had left home in them. He wore the surcoat of Gondor as the Narnian ruler addressed him. The elder king, perhaps ten years his senior, was visibly distraught at the reports of losses of his people, regardless of their race. The report of the death of the young bear Bristlefur had put tears into the king's eyes. Never before had he seen such concern or love of a monarch for his people, all his people. He had put both his hands against the stone railing as he looked east across the water, almost as if pleading with the horizon.
The knight tried to remember everything he could for the High King. "I will tell you what I know, your majesty."
"Please." Peter responded.
"Their people were elves once, but they had been taken and tortured in mind and body until they were irredeemably twisted by an ancient evil power known as Morgoth thousands of years ago, long before humans walked this land or any land. I don't know how they are bred now, but that is what I was taught about them. They have always been the servants and soldiers of evil. Light of any kind, but especially that of the divine, appears to frighten and even harm them. Light and things blessed by the valar or made by the elves. Until the week before, I had never seen orcs dare to march in open sunlight during the day."
"You have mentioned these 'elves' before. Who or what are they?" the king asked. "We have no such people here in Narnia, or anywhere that I have seen."
"The loremasters say they are the firstborn of Eru. The first to be awakened." The knight replied. "At the dawn of this world, before man was awakened, they came from Valinor in the far west across the sea to Middle Earth and built kingdoms and grand cities. They are a tall, handsome and pretty people, fair skinned, and most are fair haired. They look much like us, but are more refined and have long pointed ears. From what I know, they are immortal unless they fall in battle. There are some living, as I have heard, who still remember the time before our people walked the land. They carry the special favor of Eru and the valar. Those few I have met in my country have all been good and just, though they are becoming much fewer in number in Middle Earth. Many now are choosing to abandon their cities and settlements and return to their ancient homelands in the far west across the sea."
"So they would not be of help to you or to us? They have chosen to abandon the fight against these monstrous reflections of themselves." The king asked.
"I can't say for certain, your majesty." He replied. "I know it was not always so. During the ancient war against Sauron, it was the elves who stood by men. They fought and died alongside us. But children are rare among them, and treasured, and every death of an elf hurts their numbers far more than it hurts ours, I'm sorry to say. They may just not have the strength of numbers to stand against the darkness any longer."
"And yet, by your word, there seems to be no end to their twisted kin." Peter observed.
"That is unfortunately so, your majesty." The knight confirmed for him.
"They come from Mordor, you said?" The High King asked. "Then there must be orc towns, settlements, perhaps even women and children one would think. They cannot just pop out of the ground on a whim. All creatures have an origin, parents, progenitors."
"I don't know, your majesty. In truth, I just don't know. My company never made it so far into that desolate land to discover the answer to that question, but skirted the foot of the southern mountains around it so as to avoid large patrols. For all I know, they are now birthed from dark sorcery at Sauron's whim." Sir Eric replied.
"But they can be killed." The king then said.
"They can be killed, yes your majesty." The knight confirmed for him.
"You said elvish and holy things cause harm to them? That light itself causes them discomfort and pain?" The king asked again. "Perhaps that is something we can use to our advantage. Aslan himself created this land. It is special, blessed by him, and dedicated to him. One might even call it holy to Aslan."
"Of what little I have seen and experienced, you would receive no argument on that count from me, your majesty." Sir Eric replied, though he felt a sense that the king had not meant his remarks towards the knight, but was directing them eastwards across the sea as he continued to stare at it for several moments more.
Then, after those moments had passed, High King Peter stood up straight and faced the knight directly.
"You said before that Mordor's eastern flank was practically unguarded. That this Sauron's attention was focused on the west and did not appear to be concerned with an attack from the east. Did I hear this right." The king asked. "Do you believe this still might be the case?"
"Once again, I don't know, your majesty." Sir Eric answered honestly. "It is apparent that they now know that this land is here, and they are scouting it where they can. If I were to guess, they are probably still trying to assess if it is any kind of a threat, or even another exploitable resource. I highly doubt Sauron would commit any serious resources to a real invasion eastwards until he has brought Gondor and all of Middle Earth under his heel."
"Are you saying these skirmishes are their way of toying with us? Feeling us out?" Peter asked.
"That would be how I would read it, for now at least, your majesty." The night responded.
Sir Eric thought back through that conversation with the Narnian King, turning it over and over in his mind as he flew through the skies on Fleetfeather's back. The High King had not revealed his full mind to the knight with his questions, but Sir Eric thought he could guess what moves the ruler was contemplating against this fresh threat.
The Narnian landscape continued to speed by, and the griffin seemed tireless as he flew onwards towards the west. It had concerned Sir Eric that the creature had not thought to land and rest for a time. He had inquired of Fleetfeather if he should like to land somewhere and rest for a bit before continuing. He found himself having to shout his question though with the rush of the wind around him making such a noise.
"No! Thank you! I'm quite fine! I shouldn't need to land for several more hours I would think! I expect we'll be over the wasteland by then! Nasty place, but there should be someplace we can make camp for a short time!" Fleetfeather responded in a friendly manner, touched by the human's concern. And so they flew onwards.
The morning turned into mid-day, and the mid-day became the afternoon when the horizon before them changed from the bright greens of forest and blues of rivers and lakes to the bleak grays and tans of the wasteland beyond Narnia. The border itself, marked by a wall of trees and growth was even more stark from that altitude as Sir Eric observed it than when he had first seen it as he was running for his life. From that altitude, they could also just make out the fetid and twisted landscape of Mordor in the distance which began beyond the wasteland, and the mountains which guarded its northern and southern borders.
"Ugh!" Fleetfeather squawked his displeasure at the sight, his eagle's eyes being much sharper than the humans. "What a foul land that is! How could anyone want to live in such an awful place!?"
Sir Eric had no answer for him to that question. He returned his attention to the passing ground beneath them and noted where they crossed from the green and growing land of Narnia to the desert beyond it, expecting to see nothing but rock, sand, and dead wastes. It was no wonder to him upon seeing the sight why no one had thought to travel farther east from his lands with both Mordor and the desert acting as a natural barrier. What fool would think there was a paradise just a few days journey beyond it?
And then he caught sight of things which made his stomach tighten and his heart quicken with anxiety.
"Fleetfeather! Do you see them, my friend?!" He called to the griffin. "Are those trebuchets they are hauling?!"
"I do!" The griffin called back. "Unfortunately better than you! There must be a hundred of them down there! And no, I see no trebuchets, but carts laden with saws, axes, and other implements for turning trees into boards and planks! They look like lumberjacks sent to harvest wood!"
"Turn around!" Sir Eric told him. "Please! We need to see what they are up to!"
Fleetfeather didn't argue, but gracefully banked and turned, careful to keep his rider upright and stable. He descended only a little lower as he made a second pass. On that pass, the knight observed camps of orcs, marked by their campfires and tents, which had already been set up at the edge of Narnia's forested border. Spits had been erected over the fires, and the remains of beasts could be seen on them. His stomach turned to the point of nearly vomiting when he realized that one of the roasts on a spit had only two legs.
Sir Eric considered the sight carefully. The Narnians beyond the woods had no idea, and every creature, even every tree was of importance to them as a citizen it seemed. He was right in his assessment, he realized. The orcs had been scouting, and they decided that Narnia was less of a threat than a valuable resource for wood, and, to his horror, food for their monstrous mouths.
"We must return to Cair Paravel! Can you make it that far, my friend?!" Sir Eric called out to the griffin.
"What of getting you back to your own country?!" Fleetfeather questioned.
"This cannot wait! Your people don't know what's coming! They'll strip the western woods bare and kill every tree from north to south!" The knight returned. "Cair Paravel must be told while there's still time!"
The griffin considered the seriousness of their situation and then replied, "I can't fly that much farther today! But I know of a place not far beyond the border where we can rest safely and perhaps send a message through the dryads to the kings and queens!"
"Let's go then!" The knight answered, thinking, I won't be responsible for more Narnian lives if I can help it.