Kadaj vs Warsman Part 2 - Siege of Phalas Ilgor

Orcs were chanting in the eaves of Caras Dol; seemingly every inch of the place was occupied by one, making the hilltop stronghold shake with the noise of drums and yells. They stood in ragged armor, either stolen from fallen enemies or beaten in their forges from old iron forced from veins of ore underneath the stronghold. With weapons in their hands more suited for butchery than war, they continued their uproar.

If one were to journey into Caras Dol, they would have to climb stairs carved from the rock in its cliffs, a treacherous climb that made foes seeking entrance targets from the countless towers that lined the gatehouse and the walls that stretched like the coils of terrible iron snakes from either side. Heads of fallen royalty or those of dead prisoners would be hung on either side of the stairway on pikes, which set on fire after great victories in wartime, leaving skulls with gaping jaws and broken teeth.

Then the gatehouse they would pass under, though they would have to have permission through it or a miracle to break it down, for the gate-doors were made of black iron, a material rare and strong enough to be valued even by the Dwarves of the Thranabad Mountians.

Finally, within the fortress itself, a journeyer would be met with scaffolding lining the interior, all of which would be lined with archers, leading from fortification to fortification, each minor in comparison to the centerpiece of this morbid place: a great tower built upon a seat of red marble, called "Dodorim" by many, or "Tower of Black Flame" in other tongues.

There, in Dodorim, lies the ruler of this place - a great sorceror named Morick, known to some as Warsman.

At the gesture of a hand he calms the army that follows him without question. Armored and crowned in black iron, Morick leads his armies south, due for Phalas Ilgor, his ultimate goal - to capture the city and create a seat of power there, crushing any who make their stand in his way.

The city was fresh from earlier attacks, but never one as grand as this. Phalas Ilgor sat in the heart of a great mountain range, built into the rock and deep underneath. The banner of the Gold Pearl, the legendary stone said to have been placed underneath the city by a past king, hung over the city, flowing proudly in the wind.

Morick smirked.

"They shall all burn."

His armies amassed around the city - Orcs from Caras Dol, men from Sundar and Drun, the Dark Elves from the arctic Northlands, and Ogres from the darker parts of the Thranabad Mountains. He had sent out for all evil to come to him and they heeded his call, fueled by age-old grudges against the Isuldorians and promises of bloodshed and riches in they fought.

Raising an arm, his hand gloved and fingers ringed, the catapults were brought into range. They were made of iron and twisted lumber, brought from Caras Dol where they were perfected to have the greater range of the siege weapons made there.

"Light the boulders ablaze. Burn them deeper into the city." He said to an Orc captain near him, who shouted the order back to those manning the machines in the Black Speech.

They heeded the command, dumping oil over the boulders and taking a torch to each. Soon Morick dropped his hand, the boulders lighting up the dusk sky as they came over the walls and into the central courtyard, bursting into piles of fire as they made contact with the streets.

The barrage continued for some time, the catapults making enough distraction for the towers, which were being pushed by Ogres to the walls, each filled to the brim with Orcs and Drunish warriors.

Morick smiled. The men of Isuldor were weak in heart, but strong in pride - this one had rallied them to a higher power. Normally his Orcs' barbarity would've made short work of the defense on the wall.

A dragon appeared from nowhere, his master the one who assumed captainship of Phalas Ilgor's defense. Morick watched as he wreaked havoc, but was nonetheless agitated.

"Send in the Wyrms. Have Gorebal released to fight the traitorous beast under this city's captain."

An Orc officer grinned evilly and walked off to tell the others of his master's plans. The Wyrms were a terrible breed of creature - large and foul, immature dragons that laid in the ground until stirred, then unleashed upon an enemy with their immense bodies and fire-breath. They pierced through rock easily with their sturdy skulls and would only be stopped until their rage ran dry, which they Orcs fueled with cracks of the whip.

They were released from their cages, burrowing underground at remarkable speed towards the city, erupting from the ground with fiery gusts of foul air from their maws directed at the men of Isuldor around them, making many burst into flame instantaneously.

While this was going on, Morick turned his steed to Gorebal, mightiest of the dragons of the north, who had followed them on foot in place of winged flight.

"That dragon is a traitor to your kind, Lord Gorebal, dispose of it and a dragon's honor will be restored to you..."

Gorebal, black in scale and blazing crimson in eye, mightier in stature than a Dwarf fortress and with breath white with heat, heeded Morick's words with a mighty roar before spreading his wings, blocking out the sunset in the process, and bolting off for the other dragon, his maw agape and white-hot flames darting from his throat with rage.

"Bring in the Maudlung."

Drums accompanied these words, shouts from the unnumbered Orcs ringing out with them. They began to chant and sing in their Black Speech the arrival of a mighty thing of ruin and discord brought from the deepest workshops of Caras Dol - something of power and such engineering might that only one would ever be seen for the ages to come. It was an immense iron box outfitted with an equally large gear on the front, cannons jutting out of holes in its design for protection and catapults on top for bombarding power into whatever lay before it. The gear began turning, powered by a duo of Ogres inside the iron shell, each manning a wheel that they turned with their physical dominance.

Maudlung, as the Orcs chanted, was carted onto the battlefield by twenty Ogres, ten pulling on chains and ten pushing from behind, the ones in front armored in leather strappings to keep from arrows sticking in them. The gear ripped through the stone of the gatehouse with ease, working into the gate doors itself within seconds.

Meanwhile, the creatures in the towers over threw the defense on the wall as the sturdiness of the Isuldorians faltered at the sight of such a thing. Morick signaled the beginning of the full onslaught of Caras Dol and its allies - the untold thousands that made up the swarm moving behind Maudlung and to the doors, which crumbled open as the machine was discarded, its purpose served. Ogres armored in iron and with mighty hammers struck out at the blocks of Isuldorian infantry, archers frantically firing into the approaching horde. However, as the blocks were broken, Orcs rushed into the gaps, pushing their way through and lashing out with their weapons of death.

Phalas Ilgor was opened like a fresh wound, its pride and courage spilling forth like blood.

Chaos ran rampant throughout the city as the forces of Caras Dol rampaged over the walls in astounding numbers. The Isuldorians, without a captain, fell into disarray and fell into a run back to the higher levels of their city, where cannons and archers were frantically trying to hold off the oncoming swarm.

Morick was impressed that the Isuldorians lasted this long.

Gorebal returned, his scales scratched and burned, but nonetheless victorious over the other.

"Where is the rider?" Morick asked, wondering where the one he had specifically asked Gorebal to capture.

The dragon-lord replied with a low grunt.

"Back to Caras Dol, eh? I will deal with him myself. Lead the remaining parts of the assault. Leave them all in cinders."

Gorebal complied and soared off, smoke escaping the cracks in his teeth as he neared the remaining Isuldorians.

Morick called for a cavalry division of Sundarians, who came on strong brown horses and with brass armor, carrying longbows and at their sides swords from Drun, which were made of bronze and crafted into scimitars. Going north to his stronghold, the horsemen at his back, Morick laughed as he already neared those who had escaped, the Sundarians firing arrows at them once they became within range - the hunt had begun.