Boruk's face twisted in rage. He surged ahead of his warriors, determined to personally tear the insolent goblin to pieces. But as he crashed over the outer ring of thorny barricades, a second volley of arrows hissed down. Boruk raised his shield; the missiles thudded into it and clattered against his armor. One arrow struck his forearm guard at a lucky angle and ricocheted into the meat of his bicep. He grunted, snapping the shaft off without slowing.
All along the village perimeter, orcs met the remaining obstacles. Goblins hidden in foxholes and behind barricades lunged out with spears or swung spiked clubs at any orc that came within reach. In return, orc blades fell with brutal strength, cleaving through crude shields and goblin bodies alike. Screams and roars mingled with the clang of iron on iron.
The larger orcs began tearing gaps in the barricades, allowing their brethren to flood into the village proper. A vicious melee erupted in the narrow lanes between goblin huts. What the goblins lacked in size and armor, they made up for in ferocity and numbers. They swarmed lone orcs—two clinging to an arm while another hamstrung the legs, bringing the hulking foe down so a fourth could drive a dagger into his eye. But whenever an orc could get a swing or a kick in, goblins were sent flying with shattered bones. The ground grew slick with blood from both sides.
Near the center of the fray, the Ashfang berserker finally unleashed the fury he had been holding in check. With a blood-curdling howl, the massive orc activated his Frenzy Rush. Muscles bulged, veins popping across his neck and temples as he surrendered to berserk rage. He lowered his horned head and charged.
An entire section of thorn barricade exploded into splinters as the berserker plowed through it like kindling. Two unfortunate goblins in his path were trampled outright, their bodies crunched underfoot. The berserker didn't even slow. His mad charge carried him straight into the village, where he smashed into a knot of goblin defenders like an avalanche.
The orc's enormous battleaxe swung in wide, hissing arcs, each cleave accompanied by flecks of foamy spit flying from his mouth. A goblin warrior shrieked as the axe nearly cut him in half. Another jabbed a spear at the berserker's ribs, but the tip merely grazed off a ridge of muscle; the berserker backhanded the spearman with enough force to crack a skull, then beheaded a third goblin with a returning swing. In the space of a few heartbeats, he had created a circle of death around himself, and none dared step within range of that whirling blade.
Rugh, seeing the carnage, bellowed a challenge and rushed to confront the berserker. The hobgoblin commander was flanked by two of his best soldiers. They fanned out, trying to encircle the wild orc.
The berserker locked bloodshot eyes on Rugh and laughed—a sound devoid of sanity. He raised his axe and brought it down in an overhead Brutal Slash aimed to split Rugh from crown to groin. Rugh sidestepped at the last possible moment, the axe grazing his armor and biting into his upper arm instead of his skull. Rugh gritted his teeth against the pain and retaliated with a sweeping slash of his own curved blade, carving a bloody line across the berserker's chest.
The other two hobgoblins struck in quick succession, spears driving at the berserker's exposed flanks. One spearpoint punctured deep into the orc's side, just below the ribs; the second skittered off a thick collarbone, drawing blood but not slowing the frenzy.
If the berserker felt these wounds, he gave no sign. In the red haze of his rage, pain was a distant memory—his Pain Ignorance made him nigh unstoppable. With a guttural roar, he wrenched the spear out of his side with his free hand and flung it back at its owner. The hobgoblin barely dodged, eyes wide in shock.
Unencumbered now, the berserker launched into a whirlwind of attacks. Rugh parried desperately as the heavy axe whooshed past him again and again. Each block sent vibrations rattling up Rugh's arms. One mistimed defense and the hobgoblin would be cleaved in two. The berserker's wounds, instead of weakening him, only seemed to fuel his Bloodlust—an orcish trait that converted suffering into a second wind of ferocity. The gash on his chest was already clotting, and a manic fire danced in his eyes.
Seizing a chance when the berserker over-swung, Rugh hurled himself forward, ramming his sword deep into the orc's gut. At the same moment, one of Rugh's lieutenants lunged from behind and drove a blade between the berserker's shoulder blades. The twin wounds should have been mortal for any normal being.
The berserker staggered, blood gushing from his lips. But still he did not fall. With a final, defiant howl, he swung his axe one last time in a wide, haphazard arc. Rugh barely ducked in time—the blade shaved a lock off his hair. The lieutenant caught a glancing blow to the arm and cried out.
At last, the light faded from the berserker's eyes, the frenzy in them dimming to emptiness. His axe slipped from nerveless fingers and thudded on the ground. The great orc toppled forward with a crash, dead before he hit the blood-soaked dirt.
Elsewhere on the battlefield, the orc Shaman made his presence felt. Chanting in a throaty, otherworldly voice, he hurled a glob of sickly green flame toward a cluster of goblin archers perched atop a rock outcrop. The Flame Spittle burst on impact, splattering the poor goblins with sticky, cursed fire. They died writhing in agony as the malevolent flames consumed them, their screams cutting through the air. The Shaman cackled and began summoning an ancestral spirit to aid a wounded orc, his milky eyes rolling back as he entered a trance.
Grak saw the danger—the Shaman's dark magic could turn the tide if left unchecked. Snarling an oath, the old goblin chieftain sprinted through the chaos, zigzagging past skirmishes with surprising agility. He closed in on the chanting Shaman, curved blade drawn.
The orc Shaman sensed him at the last moment. His eyes snapped back into focus, and he thrust his bone-crowned staff at Grak, spitting a curse. An invisible force slammed into Grak's chest, sending him stumbling, but the stubborn goblin recovered and lunged under the Shaman's guard. His sword sliced a deep gouge across the Shaman's thigh.
The Shaman roared in pain and swung his heavy staff. Grak raised his sword just in time; wood and metal clashed with a burst of sparks. The force sent a jolt up Grak's arm, but he held his ground, teeth bared.
They circled each other warily on the fringe of the melee. The Shaman's lip curled, revealing yellowed fangs. He feinted with the staff and then thrust his clawed hand out, releasing a pulse of raw spiritual energy. It struck Grak like a hammer. He gasped as the wind was knocked from him and his vision swam.
Sensing victory, the Shaman limped forward, raising his staff for a finishing blow. But Grak, will forged from decades of survival, refused to collapse. With a guttural cry, he sidestepped the staff's downswing and drove his curved sword up under the Shaman's ribcage.
The orc Shaman gurgled, eyes bulging in shock. Grak snarled and shoved the blade deeper, then ripped it free in a shower of dark blood. The Shaman crumpled to his knees, clutching at the mortal wound. Grak delivered a swift kick to the orc's chest, toppling him over. The goblin would have finished him off then and there, but another orc loomed into view, forcing Grak back into the general fray. The Shaman was left to bleed out slowly, the light of his foul magic flickering and dying with him.
Despite the tactical ambush and the goblins' fierce defense, the larger orcs gradually began to push into the village center. Goblin bodies littered the ground alongside orc corpses, and the survivors on both sides fought with frenzied desperation amid the carnage. The air reeked of blood, smoke, and fear.