The call of Darkness. Part 2.
The Kingdom of Topa. "The Gates of the World".
The Kingdom of Topa lay nestled in a narrow gorge between two continents: Fillades and Grameus. Fillades was the homeland of the peoples of the Third Civilized Zone. Grameus, on the other hand, was an uncharted continent where the last legions of demons, defeated in the Great War against the Four Heroes and the Messengers of the Supreme God five thousand years ago, had once found refuge.
The Kingdom of Topa had been founded by those very four heroes and their allies—those who had delivered the final blow to the demons that had nearly devoured the entire world. This realm stood as a sentinel, the last bastion between humanity and the monstrous creatures. Among them were pig-like orcs, trolls, ogres, goblins, and earthen dragons, distinct from their kin on Fillades. Over the past decade, small bands of these monsters, roaming the outskirts near the Gates of the World, had been eradicated.
And so, atop a lofty observation post, two border guards conversed, their voices hushed as they discussed strange happenings.
"We've been standing watch here for so long, and these creatures only show up in small groups… If there were even a hundred of them, we'd still hold the gates, no question," said the first guard, gazing wearily into the distance.
"Don't be so sure. The ancient books say they were a true calamity. Our ancestors had to face them head-on," replied the second, a half-elf, his tone laced with evident unease.
"What's that… what in the—" whispered the first in shock, pointing toward a black shadow creeping slowly between the snow-dusted hills.
"Gods… it can't be," muttered his companion, staring at the shadow that spread across the ground like liquid.
"What the…?!" gulped the first, watching as the dark mass moved toward them.
"Is it… a pack? No… it's a horde of goblins! There's no way there are more than a hundred," said the second guard, barely believing his own eyes. "There are thousands… tens of thousands!"
"No, look—wild orcs too… and more…" whispered the first, gesturing toward shadowy figures clad in black and gray armor. They wielded pole weapons—spears and poleaxes—and their standards bore the image of a red dragon's eye against a black field, flanked by fiery wings on either side. "High dark orcs… Where did they come from?!"
"Get the commandant on the manacom, now!" barked the first guard, his gaze nervously fixed on the growing army.
The second, the half-elf, furrowed his brow and began his report. Suddenly, an alarm sounded—a horn that hadn't been heard since the kingdom's founding. Chaos erupted all around. Archers rushed to the walls, civilians hurriedly reinforced the gates, and infantry formed tight ranks. Panic took hold, though the warriors still fought to maintain their composure. Women clutching children wept silently, while husbands bid farewell and joined the militia.
The next day, a black miasma blanketed the land. An immense demonic army assembled before the Gates of the World. Goblins and orcs snarled, primed for battle. The high dark orcs bellowed war cries in their guttural tongue, the sound hammering at the ears, as they struck their shields with terrifying force.
"God… how many are there…" whispered a militiaman, nervously fidgeting with his bow.
"Strike without mercy! Remember, your family stands behind you. These beasts won't spare you," said the sergeant, pointing at the demons. "They'll kill anyone who hesitates."
"Yes… Sir…" replied the militiaman, struggling to steady his nerves. He took a deep breath and steeled himself.
The moment arrived. From the enemy lines, the creatures raised their horns, the sound shaking the fortress walls. Yet the warriors did not falter. Their answering battle cry rang out, so powerful it seemed even the stones trembled beneath its force.
"To battle, ready yourselves!" shouted the sergeants, as archers and militia drew their arrows taut.
From the ranks behind the demonic host, trolls emerged, siege machines mounted atop their backs. Catapults sprang to life, hurling stones directly at Topa's walls. In an instant, massive chunks of rock smashed into the fortress, engulfing everything in their path—including those who stood on the ramparts, poised for their final stand.
"Fire!" roared the sergeant's voice, and the archers, without waiting for further orders, loosed their arrows at the enemy. The shafts fell like rain, piercing the bodies of goblins and wild orcs. The creatures dropped, shrieking in agony, but there were so many that, despite the losses, they pressed forward undeterred, a relentless wave sweeping aside all in its path.
Arrows glanced off the dark orcs' armor with a loud clang, as if striking stone walls. The orcs, heedless of their casualties, roared with fury, their eyes glowing like embers in the night, burning with unquenchable malice.
Then came the dreadful sound of the horn once more, so deep its echoes rippled through the demon ranks. Signal flags rose among the orcs, and as if on cue, they advanced in unison, step by step. Their march was synchronized, a single living machine, the thunder of their footfalls shaking the earth. Their war cries carried an undeniable menace—this was no mere army; it was calamity incarnate.
Suddenly, from the misty haze, as if rising from the earth itself, a colossal crimson earthen dragon burst forth, its scales glinting like blood-streaked gold. Atop its back sat the Demon Lord Nosgorath, his towering figure looming over all like a shadow of death. The saddle on the dragon resembled a throne of sinister stone, adorned with human-like bones, upon which perched the embodiment of nightmare. Flanking him, like guardians of a dark realm, marched his retinue—the Blue and Red Ogres, steadfastly following their master. Their presence was an omen that this battle was no longer one for humankind.
"Nosgorath…" breathed one of the guards, struck speechless. "The Demon Lord."
Near the wall, boar-like orcs hefted fallen stones and hurled them at the defenders with monstrous strength. The impacts were so forceful it seemed the walls themselves might give way. Losses mounted among the humans and half-elves, but no one paid it mind—each was focused on their task, with no room for error. Arrows flew, piercing enemy flesh, yet still, there were too many.
Goblins fell with a single hit, crumpling like toys, their frail bodies unable to withstand the onslaught. But the boar-like orcs, even after taking six arrows, pressed forward relentlessly, their thick hides serving as shields. The dark orcs, however, were another matter. Only a strike to the neck could fell them, and even then, it often wasn't enough to bring them down.
"Don't let them get closer!" shouted the sergeants, directing the archers. "Ignore the goblins! Aim for the necks of the high and wild orcs!"
The ground was soaked with blood—black, thick, and alien, like the war itself. The humans didn't feel it, didn't think about it. They kept fighting because there was no other choice.
"TROLLS!" pierced the air again, the sergeant's voice ringing out. He pointed to enormous, grotesque beings, scarcely recognizable as living things. Standing over thirteen feet tall, clad in heavy armor, their slow steps reverberated through the earth, their eyes ablaze with malice. "We can't let them reach us!" seemed the only command left to give.
But what could the archers do? Arrows sliced through the air, only to bounce off the trolls' thick plating. The beasts drew nearer, indifferent, as if the barrage meant nothing. Then, one troll, a massive battering ram affixed to its head, lunged forward and slammed into the fortress wall with unimaginable force, unbowed. The ground quaked as if struck by a giant's hammer. Soldiers on the ramparts staggered; those who couldn't hold their footing fell like puppets with severed strings.
Yet the wall endured, cracking but standing firm as stones rained down. The defenders returned to their bows without a moment's hesitation—there was no time for fear.
A single arrow struck true, piercing a troll's eye. The creature howled, lost its balance, and toppled onto its own orcs. Several couldn't scramble away in time, crushed beneath its falling bulk like a breaking wave.
"Target the ram!" cried the sergeant, his voice nearly lost in the chaos. "Hit it, or they'll breach the gates!"
But in that instant, an orcish crossbow bolt pierced the sergeant's head. It was swift, without warning—he didn't even see it coming. His body crumpled, yet the squad knew what to do. Arrows and bolts rained down on the dark orcs and trolls dragging their fearsome weapon. Topa's walls teetered on the brink, but they would fight to the last.
"Captain, a massive number of demons have already breached the gates!" the assistant reported with alarm, pulling the commandant from his thoughts.
"Understood—fortify the defenses! Hold them to the death!" the commandant barked, and together with his assistant, they raced toward the gates.
"Gods… The Crimson Dragon!" whispered the captain, his gaze locking onto the enormous reptile atop which sat Nosgorath himself, the lord of demons.
"Captain, there's the blue and the red ogre too," the assistant added quietly, his voice thick with dread.
"I see… Then we'll repeat the feat of our ancestors and drive this demonic filth back beyond the horizon!" declared the commandant, his face hardening with fierce determination. He raised his sword and let out a thunderous battle cry:
"For the Kingdom of Topa! For our ancestors who carved their way through demonic legions! For the Four Heroes! For the Supreme God! To battle!"
The horn blared, its sound rolling across the earth, filling the warriors' hearts with resolve. The soldiers roared their own war cry in response, their voices brimming with rage and fury, and forming a tight wedge, they charged into the fray. One second, then another—and the infantry crashed into the demonic invaders with breathtaking force. The high orcs formed a dense wall of shields, their pikes gleaming in their hands, ready to meet the onslaught. A prolonged and brutal battle erupted.
From every direction came the clamor of clashing steel, screams, curses, the growls of orcs, the squeals of goblins, and the shrieks of pig-like orcs. Wild orcs surged into the human ranks like beasts, aiming to shatter their formation. Heavy orcs and trolls, concealed behind a thick mass of goblins, pushed forward, tearing through the human defenses. Goblins darted in from the flanks, sneaking behind distracted fighters to strike.
Suddenly, a high orc barreled into the human line wielding a massive, grotesquely curved sword. A brave soul charged to meet him with a bastard sword, rushing headlong, only to be struck square in the face by an armored fist. The man collapsed, and the orc raised his blade to finish him—when an arrow struck the orc, throwing him off balance. Seizing the moment, the fallen warrior thrust the tip of his sword into the orc's eye. Both crashed to the ground together, but the human did not rise again.
The Crimson Dragon, unfurling its monstrous wings, let out a roar, and the high orcs, yielding to its power, fell back. Yet the goblins and wild orcs pressed their ferocious struggle against the humans, unwilling to retreat. Incapable of following orders, they fought only for their own gain, like meat thrown into a grinder.
At that moment, two demonic beasts—the ogres—loomed before the humans. Towering creatures, nearly thirteen feet tall, covered in red and blue fur, they wielded massive clubs. Each swing spelled death for several men. With every strike, their clubs sent soldiers hurtling through the air, crashing down before they could rise again. The humans' spirits wavered, but their captain, refusing to let them break, rallied them time and again into the fight.
Sergeants shouted reminders to their warriors of what they were fighting for.
Once more, the humans formed a tight formation and charged. But no matter what they did, the wounds on the demonic beasts sealed shut as if they were invulnerable. This was a struggle where hope hung by a thread.