Chapter 5 Upon the Battlements

The wind blew in over the western steppe, bringing along the stench of camp-life, roasted meat mixed with shallow latrines and generally poor hygiene of the creatures that were camped beyond the wall, generating a nauseating aroma. had it not been for the air filters the Knights were currently utilizing, they were certain that at least half of them would feel ill due to the stench alone, they had after all seen some civilians who were brave, or curious enough to join them on the wall get sick in mere instants. The result was always the same, the civilians would retch, and afterwards retreat in disgrace while holding their noses.

The honourable Sir Bron, a Senior Knight who had declined inclusion in the proud few, had offered the opinion it was the opponents way of weakening their defenses.
An all-together not too unreasonable idea, so the others agreed. All but Lance, a somewhat younger Knight, who believed this was merely how the creatures lived, admittedly it would grant them some boons, but he found it did not seem to be planned, and refused to credit the filthy things with the intellect to plot out  being filthy as a tactic. A statement they all had a slight chuckle at.

Until their communication channels chirped, indicating Mordred’s presence. They straightened their backs, checked their gear, and dared not speak, or even breathe out of order.
Mordred sighed, ever since he had become the Knight Commander none of the men had been at ease around him, save the proud few.
“At ease, gentlemen.” The words had come from a man they did not recognize, all though he was clad as a knight of senior rank, a deep crimson tunic beset with gold threaded woven bands. Still he barely seemed worth mentioning his cheeks hollow, his eyes deep set, and his skin pale and glistening with a sheen of sweat. Truly the most remarkable thing was his ability to withstand the smell. “Status report.” Knight Commander Mordred had nearly barked the order, something must have disturbed him greatly so Sir Bron immediately stepped forward. ” The Camelot is beset from all sides Sir, they seem intent on waiting us out Sir, that or they ran out of ordinance sir.” Mordred waited for but a moment, Sir Bron might be right, unless, he turned to Sir Ton. ” So what do you think?”  The Knight took a moment to consider his answer, but when he did speak his words were calm, and considered. “Sir Bron is not wrong, however I fear they might have a secondary motive, they might be a distraction sir.” A conclusion Mordred had also reached, with a large army on all sides the enemy might use a different route. Such as a tunnel.

Turg had walked further than he had thought the wall would be long, yet still he saw none of his scratch marks, nor did he recognize the tents or his people standing around, it was as if the wall was endless , the wall was a constant in a shifting landscape of tents and ruddy faces, brown and black orks here pale orks there some green orks, even a red ork, before the walk he had only heard of those. The stories had been true, the red ones were large, their muscles well built. Turg heaved a sigh, He himself was a mere tan ork, not to different from other creatures, his jet black hair hanging over a soft face, the only thing telling he was one of the people had been his ears. And his parents, his mother always protected him, taught him the ways more patiently than others, his Father already old at his birth, had been a great warrior, and taught him the  way of the gun. Turg was the best shot of those his age, yet he now did not have a gun anymore, the war-leader had it.
So all he could do was walk, and see all around the wall, the orks laughing at him as he did, saying things to make fun of him, calling him a gunless whelp. Still some did not laugh, instead following him at a distance, sneaking between the many unknown faces, until every time he looked from the wall he would see some faces he already knew. It was however not before the first of those faces had started walking next to him before he knew what was happening. Turg had gotten followers, he did not yet know why, but a pack was forming around him.

Mordred looked upon the knights before him, seven were of Ariadne’s order, the heavier armoured knights of the order of the Shield, hulking black Drogon pattern plates shining in the evening sun, the rest were of the tower and lance respectively. None were of the order of the wall, but at least they would be able to man the defenses. Still none were specialized in this sort of warfare. He looked to Sir Bron.”When shall the Chirurgeon arrive?” Sir bron checked his wrist, a curiosity held over from his older suit, his H.U.D. overlaying it with a time display, something few Knights still did, the gesture made Mordred smile, feeling nostalgic. “He should have arrived by now Sir.” It did not sound forced. “And the foe, any movement yet?” Reflexively Sir Bron checked over the side, though he already knew the answer. “Just a small group walking along the wall, we received reports from station five, it started with a single figure , it has since progressed to fifteen figures.” Mordred frowned, no reports had been made to him. “I want long range imagery of the group, time to see the face of our foe.”

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