Chapter 35: Behemoth
Recognizing the young human knight’s formidable prowess, Morgash Bloodhowl cast aside all restraint. Berserk, Legion’s Will, Boiling Blood—one by one, he activated every skill in his arsenal.
"Orcs! Fight with me!"
"WAAAGH!"
Infused with the power of Berserk and Legion’s Will, Morgash and the orc soldiers around him surged with newfound might. They became faster, stronger, and utterly heedless of death. The pressure on Alistair’s knights intensified in an instant. Here and there, a knight was swarmed by the frenzied orcs and dragged from his horse.
The duel between Morgash and Alistair reached a fever pitch. The surrounding knights and orc soldiers instinctively gave them a wide berth, for none wished to be caught in a clash of that magnitude.
Their fight became a desperate, life-or-death struggle, the shriek of steel on steel echoing across the field. Yet Alistair seemed only to grow stronger with every exchange, while Morgash, his stamina failing, was reduced to parrying desperately.
"You think... this means you win, human knight?" Morgash sneered in broken, clumsy Common Tongue.
His situation was dire. The young knight’s blows were impossibly heavy. They had not only beaten his long-time companion, the warg Ashsnarl, to death with sheer concussive force, but they had also left Morgash with severe internal injuries. He could feel his entire skeleton groaning in protest.
Even so, Morgash did not panic. Parrying another blow from the greatsword, he continued his taunt.
"I grant you are strong, young knight! But look at your men... they grow tired." He grinned, a bloody foam flecking his lips. "My soldiers are still many. And perhaps... I have more soldiers still?"
Alistair’s eyes narrowed. A cold knot of dread formed in his stomach.
As if on cue, the orc chieftain violently parried his sword, creating an opening. He rolled backward and, from his belt, produced a strangely shaped bone whistle.
Damn it! He’s calling for backup!
Alistair reacted instantly, hurling his greatsword like a javelin. It flew true, aimed directly at the orc chieftain’s chest.
But at the last second, two orc infantrymen threw themselves in its path, roaring, "For the glory of the orcs!"
Frowning, Alistair spurred his horse forward and wrenched his greatsword from the two corpses. By the time he looked up, the chieftain had already put the whistle to his lips.
A sharp, piercing shreeee cut through the din of battle.
"ROOOAR!"
"GRAAAH—HONG!"
As if in answer, a chorus of terrifying roars erupted from behind a nearby set of hills. A moment later, a pack of seven or eight colossal beasts charged into view. They had the heads of hippos, long ivory tusks, the legs of lions, the armored backs of crocodiles, and thick, grey manes covering their bodies.
"Behemoths!" a knight near the hills screamed, his eyes wide with disbelief. A second later, a massive claw snatched him from his saddle and stuffed him into a gaping maw, swallowing him whole.
"Be... Behemoths! My lord, we must retreat!"
"Gods above... what are they doing here? They belong in the Northlands!"
[Creature: Behemoth]
[Identity: Behemoth (Adolescent) (Standard)]
[Level: 36]
[Skills: Devour, Charge, Pounce, Trample, Berserk]
[Equipment: None]
[Reputation: The Skjoldheim Empire of the North remembers these beasts with a unique terror. They are the claws of a forgotten devil.]
Alistair’s lips thinned as he scanned the Behemoths’ information panel. His Aura, drained from the prolonged battle, was nearly depleted. Without its protection, a knight’s strength was severely diminished.
They could not stay here. They had to break out. Now.
He cleaved through two encroaching orcs and raised his fist high.
"All knights! Use me as your focus! We are breaking out! Do not get bogged down here!"
The panicked knights were instantly steadied by their lord’s voice. They used their lances and swords to fend off the orcs, refusing to be drawn into protracted fights as they rallied behind Alistair.
Alistair and his knights were trapped deep within the enemy lines. Outside the encirclement, the sword-and-shield infantry fought desperately to cut a path toward their lord. But the orcs were too numerous, and the Behemoths were closing in.
On the flank, Thorne’s face was a mask of anxiety. He and Hawthorn were pinned down by a tide of orcs, unable to ride to the rescue.
Even the players felt a surge of panic. Though most of them had been on the receiving end of Alistair’s wrath, it was hard not to feel a grudging admiration for such a powerful and heroic NPC. Many warrior players threw themselves at the orc lines, trying to break through, but their levels were still far too low.
The orc legion was committed. They would pay any price to annihilate Alistair’s force, and it seemed they were about to succeed.
"Damn it! Don’t you die, Lord of Frostfell! You’re our loot drop, you hear me?!"
"Where are the Minotaurs?!"
"No idea! Maybe another orc squad intercepted them! Haven’t seen them at all!"
"Warriors, keep pushing! Mages, just spam everything you’ve got in there! Use your skills! Are you out of mana or something?!"
"CAN’T YOU SEE WE ARE OUT OF MANA, YOU IDIOT?! YOU THINK WE’RE NOT TRYING?!"
Just as everyone thought the end was inevitable, a new sound erupted from a forest on the flank of the battlefield—the rough, bellowing roar of Minotaurs.
"STRENGTH AND LOYALTY!"
"Ironhorn Clan! Let us test our might against these big ones!"
"HOOAH!"
Brakar Ironhorn, hefting a colossal axe, kicked an orc out of his path and led his Ironhorn Clan crashing into the battlefield.
"By the Earth Mother, the orcs of this world are ugly and short!" Drogg grumbled in disgust.
As a terrified orc stared up at him, he brought a fist down, punching the orc’s head straight into its chest cavity. "They are a disgrace to the horde!" he bellowed.
Brakar Ironhorn had already charged a Behemoth even larger than himself. He met its massive claws with one hand, braced his axe with the other, and with a staggering explosion of raw strength, flipped the monster over his shoulder and slammed it into the ground.
"Get up, big one! Let’s go again!"
With the aid of the Ironhorn Clan, the pressure on Alistair and his knights vanished almost instantly. They quickly carved a bloody path out of the orc encirclement.
A single Minotaur warrior couldn’t defeat a Behemoth alone, so they teamed up, two to a beast, effectively tying down the monstrous reinforcements. The remaining two were of little concern; Alistair engaged one, while Thorne intercepted the other.
If not for the fact that Behemoths were notoriously difficult to tame, Alistair might have seriously considered capturing one to pull his carriage.
The knights, having broken free and regrouped with the infantry, charged back into the fray. Under the cover of the shield wall, they became a scythe, mowing down the remaining orc soldiers.
The tide had turned completely. The orc legion was broken.
Morgash Bloodhowl leaned weakly against the body of his dead companion. He stroked Ashsnarl’s furred head, gently closing the warg’s eyes for the last time.
All around him, his warriors were being cut down.
Orcish honor forbade surrender. To die in battle was, after all, the final destiny of every true orc warrior.