Bazarath had crowded into a hut with several other men and women. They were packed a bit tightly, but it was still preferable to being out in the rain. Imagine if someone failed to dry their fur out properly afterwards? In the best case, they would stink and feel itchy for a day. In the worst case, they could pick up some kind of fungus or mold. Really, it was better to just avoid getting wet altogether.

However, a chief’s job couldn’t really end just because the weather was disagreeable. There were still plenty of things Bazarath had to plan and think about. For example, there were a large number of suspicious bodies among the dead after they had all been gathered: bodies with wounds that didn’t come from falling rocks. Namely, everyone from Neff’s camp was dead, and Neff himself was nowhere to be found. Even though it was a tragedy, it was an event that inevitably had to take a back seat to the enemy at their gates, but he couldn’t rightly ignore it either.

Bazarath had a suspicion about who was responsible. That chosen from Azza’s forces was awfully rude to Neff, and even tried to hold him at the meeting when he said he wished to leave. It wasn’t enough to condemn, but it was certainly questionable behavior.

Even if Azza’s people weren’t to blame, Bazarath had no kind thoughts for those haughty lesser chosen. Despite swarming around someone superior to them, they still liked to act better than ordinary Fomors. He could still tolerate it because Azza was able to keep them in line, but now that she was dead… It would be necessary to put them into their places. If the opportunity presented itself, he would be sure to direct them into some disadvantageous battles.

His thoughts were interrupted when, out of nowhere, the mud beneath his hooves rose up with a force and congealed into spikes. Bazarath stared in shock at a pillar that had shot up just in front of his nose. Several people in the same hut let out bleating screams of pain and fear, as various parts of their bodies had been scratched, pierced, and pinned. A woman right in front of him had been lifted into the air by a spike that had pierced through from the underside of her jaw. A man to his side had arm severed at the elbow by the force and size of the spike that hit him. He bleated out in terror, his eyes going wild, and Bazarath immediately tried to help him stop the bleeding.

For a moment, as he was soaked and splattered with the blood of his companions, Bazarath felt apologies to Lord Baythes rising on his tongue for his blasphemy. But these were spears of earth, not of demonic energy, and there was a very mortal enemy of theirs who held a similar power.

They are attacking in the rain?! He realized, still only half believing that obvious truth.

There was no choice for now. Those who could move had to quickly step out into the rain and tend to those who had been more seriously harmed. Bazarath was horrified to see that it was not just his hut or just the huts containing Chiefs that had been struck. Every single hut his eyes could see had mud spikes poking through them and confused people stumbling out. No, the latter was not true for every hut he could see. One or two huts in his range of vision had descended into silence.

What monsters! They’ve already recovered enough to do this?

It took almost a minute for the muddied sounds to reach him; for him to realize that this attack was not like the first. This time, they would not be left alone to recover from the sudden magical attack. The Orc Lord’s army had arrived in full force.

Bazarath blamed himself for thinking that the pigs would like to avoid rolling around in the mud. He started to coordinate people immediately, signalling troops to blow horns and bang drums, communicating instructions to whoever was alive to hear them. With that, Bazarath lead the charge of whoever he could find. There were noticeably few Small Baphomets, causing Bazarath to curse internally, but everyone else who was able had gathered to fight.

Bazarath pointed his giant battle axe at the enemy with one hand, shouting with all of his force, “Whoever has confidence in their skill, I challenge you to face me!”

The strong should fight the strong, that was the natural order of things. If he had to fight the Orc Lord himself, so be it. He would not turn away after things had progressed this far.

***

A group of 45 Small Baphomets were currently far away from the chaos, gathered outside of the grouping of camps. The mood that hung over them was thick enough to run a blade through; enough that they didn’t bother to care about the rain that was soaking the thick fur on their legs and heads.

Yimis, Azza’s stand-in at the chief gathering, looked to be taking the news harder than most. His wide eyes were trembling as he stared holes into the soil. “That fake chief Neff was telling the truth? You can’t be serious.”

Azza was actually dead. She hadn’t come back after going to fight the magic caster who had tormented them. No matter how all of them struggled to combine their senses, they couldn’t detect any other chosen nearby that could possibly be Azza. Everything emotional told them it was impossible for her to be dead. Everything rational informed them that it was impossible she was still alive. One could say whatever else one wished about the characters of these chosen, but one couldn’t argue that they weren’t loyal.

“What do we do?” one female Small Baphomet asked. That sparked a chatter.

“Should we join the others?”

“We should avenge Azza, right?”

“How could this happen?”

“We should fight to determine a new leader!”

“The hell?! Were you just waiting for Azza to die?!”

““Quiet!”” A few of the most senior members of the group shouted out to regain control of the situation. The rest hushed and gave their attention.

“This sort of debate should be had after we’ve driven off the pigs.”

“For now, let’s watch the situation. If a good opportunity appears, we’ll take it. If not, we’ll leave quietly and decide the rest from there.”

“We won’t fight?” a male Small Baphomet asked. “The rest could get killed.”

A senior chosen replied easily, “Lord Baythes has already chosen who he wanted to save before this battle started.”

***

I let out a breath and wiped some rain away from my face. I’d rather not have to cast so many spells while trying to fly steadily in weather like this. It was incredibly difficult to focus. Ufufu, luckily, Focus seems to be one area where I can win against momma and Fiara. I may lose out in intelligence and memory, but my focus tops theirs by about thirty percent each! Could other Orcs craft their own spell formations in these kinds of conditions? I didn’t think so!

Well, but I do tend to get absorbed in things. My high focus is probably the reason I get caught up in my own inner monologues instead of paying attention to the world around me. Come to think of it, I was daydreaming back when I died, wasn’t I? If I hadn’t been, I probably would have been able to dodge that idiot fast enough…

Stupid memories. Give me back my sense of accomplishment.

Anyway, I wasn’t in range to be able to track each and every Fomor the way I did back when we were raiding villages. Instead, I just eyeballed it and aimed for a bunch of s to rise up from under each of their tent thingies. I hope I killed a few of them.

Being distracted here would be bad, so I did my utmost to watch the flow of the battle below. Momma, Fiara, Irsha, Varoon, and Durghan have all found strong enemies to fight. From their weapons, to the size of their bodies and their skill and strategy when fighting, those enemies were clearly better than the average Fomor. In my head, I’ll be calling them the enemy generals for distinction. I don’t know what their actual titles might be.

Momma and Fiara are both fighting two enemy generals each. Irsha found one with a spear that seems pretty strong. Varoon is somehow holding off four of them on his own. Close combat is his specialty, but it’s still pretty impressive to watch. Durghan seems to be up against a particularly big Fomor with a huge two-handed axe.

Dagarath, the former War Orc chieftain, is leading several other War Orcs to hunt down the Small Baphomets that are shooting magic while hiding in the fray. There… aren’t a lot of them. I don’t know what happened to that big group I saw earlier. Maybe they ran away after attacking their own allies. Really, just another reason to loath creatures with a Demonic affinity.

Ah, but I have the Demonic attribute also… I’m still not sure how to feel about that. Bury it ‘til later!

So then, I’m supposed to watch the interesting fights, figure out which enemy general is the strongest, and help to quickly wipe him/her out. My eyes are on the two guys fighting solo: the spear-user and the axe-user, and any other hidden cards that wait to come out until the last minute.

***

Durghan thought there was nothing fun about trampling weak enemies, or fighting a hard battle against someone who relied on brute strength. By that same logic, fighting Fomors was not particularly fun.

But it had been fun to plan the flow of this battle before it even happened. Varoon had been put in charge of executing the plan for various reasons: he was strong; used to a war-like environment; didn’t get emotional or lost in battle; and he just generally expected things to go wrong, so he was always ready to respond when they did. Add onto that the fact that he was the Lord’s brother, and he essentially won the position uncontested.

There wasn’t any reason to feel jealous about it. Like this, Durghan could focus on fighting and hopefully enjoy himself. Too bad the standard Fomors were difficult to fight not because of their talent, but because of their physical ability. When you combined a stressful fight with a boring one, the result was, mm, undesirable.

So when a large and intimidating Fomor stood out and called out a challenge to any skilled opponents, Durghan didn’t hesitate to come forth.

It was perfectly fine to risk death for an enjoyable fight.

The large Fomor noticed Durghan’s approach and held his axe in a battle-ready posture.

“You will face me?” There was a trace of something in the goat’s deep voice. Durghan wasn't sure, but it sounded a bit like disappointment or doubt, or perhaps it was pity.

Durghan gripped his one-handed war axe, well aware of his disadvantages in size, weight, and reach. Still he grinned and spoke in the Fomor language, “You called for someone with skill. My strength may be lacking, but my skill is real.”

“I will be fighting to kill you,” the large Fomor replied.

Durghan frowned harshly, “Don't you think I know that?”

The large Fomor looked startled, then nodded. “You're right. I apologize.” And they both gripped their axes.

***

Irsha was working with others to gang up on individual Fomors and quickly cut them down. Well, cut them down figuratively speaking. Fomors were resistant to bladed weapons, so everyone who could had switched to blunt and piercing weapons. There was also a scattering of magic casters who were throwing offensive spells from a distance. They made the battle a great deal easier, even if they were all just first level.

Still, on the front lines, Irsha was leading the groups she fought with.

She had had a bit of a hard time lately. Her mate was the brother of the Orc Lord, someone entitled to rule over all Orcs and evolutions of Orcs. Her mother in law was an incredibly powerful fighter and fire magic user with high standards for female combatants. Her mate was a mutated War Orc with the best hand-to-hand combat abilities of anyone the Orc Lord had gathered. The family she was joining with was full of chiefs and warlords. She had been doing back-breaking training in order to earn the approval of her mate’s kin. She didn’t only spar with Orcs and War Orcs, but also with the Fomor slaves in Babylon. Her ceaseless efforts were slowly budding into a strength she could be proud of.

Irsha felt warm inside when she thought how Lord Vyra must be seeing her progress and smiling. The topic had never come up between the two of them in conversation, but Irsha understood cleanly that her efforts were quietly being respected.

Here, in the midst of chaos, her abilities were showing through. Perhaps it was inevitable that she was noticed by a powerful enemy.

It felt like it had appeared out of nowhere, but a spear was thrust straight at her head. Irsha tilted her body back at the last moment, and one of her dreadlocks was cut by the blade at the tip of the weapon. She clicked her tongue in irritation. It was only recently that Irsha had switched from the braided War Orc style to the dreadlock Babylon style. If the ends were cut this soon, they would fray. Fixing it would be a pain.

She turned her head to look at the Fomor who had attacked. He had already pulled back his spear--a strange weapon that looked like a length of vine had turned to stone and had a blade affixed to its tip. The spear-wielder just grinned mischievously.

“To be honest, I’m glad you dodged,” he said.

“And why’s that?” Irsha was bristling with irritation, so she kept her words short and to the point.

Her new adversary shrugged and aimed his weapon, “It’s more fun to draw things out-- if the opponent can take it.”

With a dark and serious look, Irsha hefted her war hammer.