Jake and the Opals

At first there was only confusion. Men, dwarves, elves and even orcs were running about, shouting warnings to each other. Weapons were in every hand. Then it became clear there was fighting going on. His men were fighting with each other! Stormfist was enraged. Had the ill-restrained racial tensions finally overcome his men? Were the orcs and dwarves attacking each other? Now? Stormfist's distrust of the orc Kulzag seemed warranted now. The wily old orc had probably had his mobs attack the men just as they were trying to rest.

Stormfist gazed out over the fighting, and his eyes widened in surprise. His men were not fighting the orcs! No, instead his men were fighting amongst themselves! Orcs fought alongside of his men.

Stormfist saw a man running at him. Raising his hand to stop the man, he was nearly struck down as the man swung his sword wildly at him. Stormfist threw himself to the side, swinging his own blade in defense. Even as he swung the blade burst into white fire and sheared through the attacker, who fell with a scream. A blade fell to the ground along with the arm that had held it.

The blade continued to flame, its fire a brilliant white, a beacon in the unnatural dark. Stormfist stared at the blade. Confusion and surprise flowed across his face, but then his jaw set and he turned back to the fighting. Wading into the fray he bellowed. "To me! Rally to me!" Men slowly turned in their fighting, they shouted in reply and fought their way towards him.

As he fought those that attacked him, Stormfist reflected back at their journey into the land that Kulzag had called the land of death. As soon as their consolidated army had entered Gothmordra they had felt the wrongness. The sky had become dark with clouds that hung low in the sky. Each mile had become a burden upon them. Dread and fear gnawed at them with every step. Ill-controlled hostilities between man and dwarf, dwarf and orc, orc and elf threatened to flare up.

At the end of each day's march the men collapsed in weariness, but few slept easily. Fires were kept burning even though wood was scarce. The men spoke in hushed whispers through the night. The elves looked distant and unhappy, clustering tightly amongst their own kind. The dwarves sang defiant songs, and sharpened their axes with resolve. The orcs peered with dark eyes into the night, their weapons bare in their hands, expecting attack at any moment.

The first attack came on the third day of their journey. A band of humanoids, perhaps even men, long dead but still walking, had attacked them during the night. The initial fear and surprise had cost them three men before the sharp axes of the dwarves had chopped the dead bodies into small pieces. The orcs had grunted and yammered about the walking dead.

The horror of their enemy had begun to sink into the minds of the men marching into the dark. That night, two dozen men had deserted and disappeared into the night. Presumably to return south. The following night another five dozen left.

With each day the attacks became more frequent. By the end of the first week, the army had been assaulted a dozen times. Each time by small bands of walking dead. With each attack, a few more men would fall.

The elves with their silver arrows would sing to their bows and kept up a constant vigil through the march of each day. Each of the walking dead struck by their arrows would fall silently to the ground not to move again, but the arrows of the men and dwarves were not so effective. Their arrows pierced the flesh easily enough, but with even so many as a dozen arrows in them the walking dead would still approach the army, their flesh oblivious to the missiles. They were unconcerned with the damage done them. An arm might be cut off or smashed beyond use, but the body would press forward until hacked into pieces and the head separated from the body.

The orcs attacked with great energy, screaming war cries and hacking their opponents into tiny pieces. The dwarven axes were constantly at the ready, and kept ever sharp that they might cleave the dead quickly, powered by dwarven muscle.

At the beginning of the eighth day, their army was attacked by nearly a hundred of the dead whom the orcs called "bonewalkers" for their flesh had long since rotted away and all that remained were the bones and remnants of armor they had worn in life.

Nearly two hundred men, elves, dwarves and orcs fell in that attack, either wounded or dead. Morale was dropping quickly. Two clans of dwarves left that night, marching south to return to their homes. Kulzag stormed through the orcs preventing mass desertion through force of will and the strength of his own arm. Each attempt to depart was met with a roar and a fight, from which Kulzag limped away leaving yet another orc dead upon the ground, and another dozen cowed into obedience.

The elves did not leave, but grew more quiet with each day. Some days not a word was spoken by any elf. The spellcasters, the druids, the mage from the far south, all were busy conferring amongst themselves. Each day insisting that stops be made to allow them to consult. Each stop was begrudged by Stormfist who knew that each delay brought them closer to complete rout and desertion.

The following six days passed uneventfully. The men seemed to fear this even more than the attacks of the dead. Two weeks deep into Gothmordra and the attacks had begun to seem more and more coordinated. This absence of attack was foreboding. The men feared an attack by an even larger army; one that would not be so easily turned aside.

The truth was beyond their worst fears.

Stormfist blamed himself even though, in truth, there was no way he could have expected this attack. As he rallied the men to him, fragments of the story reached him. It seemed as if a mass mutiny had begun, his men suddenly and viciously turning against each other.