Coreal

[LOTR] Ch 3: Slay the Orc Chieftain

Added 2025-10-13 23:17:09 +0000 UTC

— — — — — —

When Glinvard Dulord of Desson, fully prepared to die, led his remaining ten guards in a charge against two trolls, he showed everyone what it meant to be a true lord.

One of his guards was the first to be struck — the troll's wooden club came down like a falling tree, sending the man flying with a crunch that turned the stomach. Their spears and swords might as well have been twigs; they couldn't pierce a Stone Troll's hide.

Glinvard wasn't one of the Dúnedain. At sixty-two, he was already old by the standards of ordinary men.

Even so, as a top elite warrior, his experience kept him alive. Time and again he slipped just past the trolls' brutal swings, his sword flashing to strike at their joints. The blows weren't fatal, but at least he was keeping the monsters occupied.

...But time was a merciless enemy. His breath grew ragged, his footwork slower, his movements heavy. Each dodge was sloppier than the last.

His guards fell one after another, and what began as fury in his chest slowly settled into something cold, solemn, and final.

He looked at the burning town. He thought of the people still trapped inside the keep. He remembered the threats of his youth — but never like this, never so hopeless. He heard the orc chieftain laughing in the distance and couldn't help but wonder—

Why does the darkness never end?

Since the day he first held a sword as a boy, he had fought to protect his people.

He had watched his father die under orc blades. Now it seemed his turn had come. Perhaps, one day, his son Miles would fall the same way — dying for this land.

Evil grew like weeds. Darkness followed like a shadow. Warriors died with their swords in hand — but where was the light they fought for?

BAM.

The troll's club struck his right arm and pain flooded his body like a fire through dry grass. He spun mid-air and hit the ground hard. His arm dangled uselessly, clearly broken.

"Father!"

Miles, atop the wall, eyes burning red with grief, loosed arrow after arrow. His shots struck true, but against the troll's skin they sparked harmlessly, doing nothing but stoke its rage.

The orc chieftain threw his head back and laughed wildly. He pointed at Glinvard and shouted, "Crush that old worm in front of them! I want them to watch him get torn apart!"

Flat on the ground, half-conscious, Glinvard still forced his left hand to grip his sword. Somehow, he pushed himself upright again.

There was no one left beside him now. Only burning houses and the icy wind.

He drew a deep breath, looked up at the approaching troll, and with the last of his strength roared—

"To Live through Death!"

…

At that moment—

A wet, heavy sound cut through the air.

The advancing troll shuddered and froze — then collapsed face-first with earth-shaking force.

Glinvard stared in shock. Miles froze mid-draw on the wall. Even the orc chieftain's face twisted in disbelief.

A long-handled war axe was buried deep in the back of the troll's skull.

"Light has come! Hope still lives!"

A powerful voice rang out from behind the orcs.

They all turned to see—

Hundreds of men of Desson, weapons raised, charging down the firelit street behind Raine and the Rangers.

"Kill!"

"Crush the filth of darkness!"

"For our home! Fight!"

The clash was instant. The sudden assault smashed into the orcs like a hammer. They had no time to react.

Rangers' arrows sang, striking vital spots with deadly precision. Talos and Kalev flanked Raine, cutting a path through the enemy like executioners.

More than a hundred men of Desson, driven past fear into pure wrath, surged forward. Northern blood ran hot, and their fury exploded all at once. They threw themselves at the orcs, weapons rising and falling, turning their grief into steel.

Against a trained adult man, a grown orc was no stronger — their victory had come only from surprise and the trolls' presence.

Now, faced with a raging host that outnumbered them and felt no fear, they faltered. Their lines broke.

"Stop them! Stop these insects!" the orc chieftain howled, swinging his war hammer wildly — but he could not stem the tide.

On the wall, hope flared in Miles' eyes like dawn breaking.

He shouted at once, "Everyone who can fight — man or woman — take up arms and follow me!"

"Fight!"

The gates of the keep swung open. Miles led the fortress defenders straight toward the remaining troll. Spears jabbed at its legs. Others tried to trip it. Someone climbed its back and drove a blade toward its eye.

...

"Father! Are you—" Miles rushed to Glinvard's side.

"I'm fine," Glinvard said, shaking his head. He held out his sword with his unbroken hand. "My arm is gone. I can't fight. From this moment, you are Lord of Desson. Go. Protect our people."

Miles took the lord's sword with both hands, eyes blazing, and without another word charged back toward the battle.

His courage surpassed even what Glinvard had dared hope. In him, he saw his own younger self — but there was something more there. Something harder. Unshakable.

Glinvard's gaze drifted across the battlefield until it found Raine.

A man who had ruled land for decades could see things others missed. In that chaotic, makeshift army, it was obvious who stood at its heart — the young Ranger leader.

He marveled at the youth's fury in battle, but more than that — he sensed it clearly.

The aura of a king.

Stronger even than what he once saw in Arathorn II of the Dúnedain royal bloodline.

"This one," Glinvard thought silently, "was born to rule. Given time, he will shake the world."

…

In the midst of combat, Raine felt the weight of someone's gaze. He turned briefly — his eyes met Glinvard's for a heartbeat.

He said nothing. He only turned back toward the battle, looking straight at the orc chieftain.

"Clear a path. I'm taking the head."

"Yes, my lord!"

The Rangers moved as one. Arrows opened the way. Talos and Kalev drove ahead like twin storms, cutting down anyone who stood before Raine.

With their support, Raine reached the orc chieftain.

No words were exchanged.

Steel met iron.

The orc chieftain was strong — top elite level — his heavy war hammer roaring through the air with ferocious power.

Steel clashed with iron.

Sparks burst. Both were driven back by the force.

Raine was the first to recover. Using the recoil to propel himself forward, he swung, his sword crashing toward the chieftain's shoulder with crushing force.

The orc's eyes widened. He barely got his hammer up in time.

Blow after blow rained down. The chieftain stumbled back, losing ground with every strike.

Raine caught an opening.

His boot slammed into the orc's gut.

The chieftain lost his balance and crashed to the dirt.

On a battlefield, there are no drawn-out duels. A single mistake is enough.

Before anyone could breathe, Raine's sword fell. And just like this, the orc chieftain's head flew from his shoulders.

Raine lifted it high and roared so the whole field could hear him—

"He is dead!"

"The orc chieftain has fallen!"

Human cheers erupted like a wave. The orcs, leaderless, broke into panic.

In that moment, the outcome of the battle was sealed.