The Blue Flame

I wrote this in the space of a half hour from one in the morning, so it most likely sucks. But, I like it so bleh!

Thock.

The arrow hit the man to Arazeal’s right, making the entire group duck into the undergrowth. His men were shouting, but their cries fell upon deaf ears. He was not used to this, the war, the battle, the bloodshed, the loss, the... joy? Was it joy, or some strange kind of fear? He did not know, but he had to continue. The Blue Fire would not let him. Roaring, he drew his sword, a small iron affair, the hilt engraved in old elvish but rusted beyond legibility. The enemy expected this and launched a volley towards him. The arrows broke against his wall of steel armour, the shafts breaking underfoot like twigs. His targets were blurred, hidden behind a thin veil of red mist. He was near now, so very near, and he would not let these damned orcs stop him. He growled, he roared, he struck.

***

The sun shone down on the small castle-town of Losath. It was the main Eastern border town of the Human Coalition, bordering the lands of the Elven Clans and the Orcish Empire. It had seen a lot of bloodshed, and its inhabitants were famous for being fearless warriors, especially against the orc hordes. One such supposed protégé was Arazeal Stonewall. Like all his friends, he joined the Kings Army at the age of 14.

He sorely regretted it.

“Get a damn move on!” The drillmaster swung his sword left and right behind the marching troops. “A one legged elephant moves faster than that!” One man, at the rear of the group, wasn’t as lucky as those at the front. The sword caught him in the calves, severing the tendons there. He fell, clutching his yell and yelping. The drillmaster looked at him scornfully and kept walking. There was a crunch and the yelps stopped. “Thats why you run gentlemen!” A horn blew. The entire city was suddenly bustling, filled with shouts and the clink of metal.

“Orc raiders!” Arazeal and his group, including the drillmaster, ran to the battlements. Groups of orcs, riding huge wolves, fell like a tide against the farmers outside. The archers on the walls did what they could, but the orcs were too many and arrows too few. “Damn those beasts.” The drillmaster turned to a nearby soldier and asked “How many were outside the gates?” The men trembled slightly as he answered.

“Fourty-two sir. My brother was out there too.” The rest of this conversation has unheard to Arazeal. He saw a lone Orc rider bear down on the city. He wore much grander armour than the standard raider. He could just make out an insignia engraved onto the black breastplate.

“Eoraisa L-aro? That’s elvish. What’s it mean?” He heard Julian, his friend and squadmate gulp.

“D-dragon. It means dragon master.” As he said this, there was a great roar from behind them. It was like the warriors had been hit with a solid block of sound, one even toppled from the walls. Arazeal whirled around, bow in hand and saw what he dreaded.

***

The common Orken Dragon is between 10 and 20 foot long. Small by dragon standards, but like its masters it more than made up for size in brutality. Every inch of it was covered in spikes, its teeth long and serrated, its claws notched and sharpened on the rocks of their homes. And, of course, it maintained that most signature power of dragonkind.

***

The blast of fire melted one of the towers into magma, and a few of the men into charred ash. Arazeal grapped Julian by the neck of his chainmail vest and threw him from the wall into the small river that ran through the town. The dragon’s beady eyes locked onto him, and he saw the mouth of the beast light up like the mouth of a volcano. He went to grab an arrow, but his hands found his quiver empty. He threw himself down the stairs, narrowly avoiding the spike of fire from the maw of the dragon. It screeched in rage and dived towards him, mouth open. He tried to move, yelled, and found his leg broken. The beast dived. He stared into its eyes, accepting his demise. Something flung past his ear, whistling in the wind. It shot straight into the dragon’s mouth, a look of suprise flickering across its features before its eyes turned blank. It smashed into the wall above the gate, sending a cascade of stones down. He turned his head to see Julian grinning and holding his bow in one hand, the other proffered to him.

“You so owe me.”

Arazeal chuckled, but it was cut short by a groan and a crash. A roar of success went up from the orcs, and he saw a warg burst straight into the gate, knocking it over in the process. The remaining defenders rushed to meet them, but were crushed underfoot. The orc in the black armor walked through, sniffed the air and turned to stare at the two. He smiled.

“Prey.”

To be continued, I don’t even know why I’m writing this at 20 to 2 in the morning -_- I'll make it better and post the other parts later.