by Ethan Spears
She envisioned her prey once more. He was standing at a three-road juncture, asking a halfling for directions. She could hear his voice speaking in Krik. She ignored what he was saying, only able to focus on the terrible sound of it. It was just as she remembered—perhaps lacking that disgusting, mocking tone, but that voice was so etched into her mind that there was no forgetting it.
For the briefest moment, she was watching the arrow enter her brother’s throat all over again.
She could sense him ahead. Gods, he was so close, she swore she could smell him. She moved down an alleyway, forcing a steady stride. She wouldn’t wreck everything by becoming too excited, not when he was so near.
He was just around the corner, stopped in front of a store. He didn’t see her.
She could imagine it. She would tear back her hood, revealing her grinning, malevolent face. His reaction would be instantaneous; a horrible recognition would flash across his eyes, an all-consuming fear. He would reach for his sword, but she would be too quick, her spell readied. Her magic would wend its way up his arm, then disperse. His hand would be torn from his body.
He would fall to his knees, clutching at his arm, screaming. Other people might scream too, but she would pay them no mind. She would lift him into the air and slowly, meticulously dismember him, liquefying his digits and limbs, bringing each one up to eye level so he could see them dissolved into a fleshy mist, shredded as easily as a blade of grass. And she would make him look her in the eye the whole time, and she would laugh, just as he laughed. And he would die, just as Larna died.
And then she would leave. The details on that were admittedly fuzzier. Whether she was them struck down by the guards or escaped to the wilds, she wasn’t sure. It was funny; she never thought about dying in her efforts to kill the Elf, but now that it seemed possible, the idea didn’t bother her. It was fitting, poetic even. Would she fall or flee? Even she did not know what she would do in the moment.
Ah, well, when the time came.
She turned the corner, the vision in her head finally matching her eyes. Her heart was beating furiously. He was completely unaware, his vile face reflected in the glass window as he peered inside.
She tore back her hood and opened her mouth… and realized she hadn’t thought of anything to say. She paused for a moment, thinking quickly. She had this one chance.
“Hey, Elf!” she shouted.
Damn it.
He turned his head. He saw her, and his brow furrowed in confusion. “Reggy?” he asked.
That wasn’t the reaction she wanted! Where was the fear, the anger, the violence? And what did that word even mean?
Then it happened. His eyes widened and his hand shot towards his blade.
Yes! That was what she was waiting for. She raised her hands, ready to shout her spell, to sing the incantation aloud so he could hear his death approaching. Her smile split as she opened her mouth.
Even as the first syllable left her throat, her voice cut off with a scream. Pain pierced her back and shot through her body. She felt something enter her and twist around in her torso. Her scream died as her breath faded and her mouth filled with blood. How was this possible? What speed did the Elf possess to reach her so quickly?
…No. His blade was still in its scabbard. Her legs began to give way under her. She felt something sliding out of her back as she fell to her knees. The ground rose to meet her, but it pulled away; a hand grabbed her by the braid and threw her onto her back. Her fresh wound met with the cobbled road, causing a pain rivaled only by the first prick in the back. The edge of her vision blackened but she fought it off, holding on to consciousness. Her eyes rolled to her attacker. Staring at her—impossibly—was an orc. He wasn’t even disguised as she was, but brazenly shirtless against the cold, his mossy green torso marked with black patterns resembling the horns of a ram, spiraling over his shoulder onto his back. In his hand was a wicked dagger, bending at jagged angles like a bolt of lightning and dripping with her blood, dark red against the metal.
“Mergau, daughter of Pon Gundruc,” the orc intoned ceremonially, singing the words with a deep and powerful voice, “thief of her teacher’s power and traitor to her people. This is what happens to those who murder their own kind.” He lifted his blade high above her head and shouted to the surrounding people, most of whom were fleeing in confusion and terror from the sudden appearance of two orcs, “May she know not the eternal hereafter!”
Aoden’s blade sliced the air as the orc sidestepped the blow. Not letting his momentum be wasted, Aoden grabbed the orc’s wrist and slammed his shoulder into its chest, knocking them both to the ground, the dagger spinning off into the street. They had barely hit the ground when a great hand grabbed Aoden by the cloak and threw him away like a sack of potatoes. Aoden jumped to his feet with his sword still firmly in his grasp, pointing it at the orc, expecting a charge.
The orc didn’t charge. His body convulsed violently on the spot. He let loose a roar like a strangled beast. His neck muscles popped and bulged, his sinews pushed outwards, writhing under the skin like a mass of snakes. In little more than a second, the orc ballooned in size, before only a head taller than Aoden, now the half-elf’s head barely reached the nipple. The orc’s color darkened until he was barely a shade greener than black. His eyes changed into orbs of pure darkness, yet Aoden could still detect when they swiveled to focus on him.
The orc roared again—a clear, powerful roar this time—and moved with the speed of a jungle cat, advancing and slashing at Aoden’s throat with his clawed hand. Aoden caught the orc’s palm with the cross-guard of his sword, spinning away and delivering a slash to the back of the orc’s leg, barely nicking it as it flashed past. The orc stopped and reversed direction with such alacrity that Aoden, expecting the move, was barely able to shift out of the way before the orc’s razor-sharp nails stabbed at where his chest was a moment ago. Aoden tried to aim a blow at the orc’s outstretched hand but had to move sharply backward as another strike came for his head.
Aoden recognized Kenta’s bloodlust at once, the maddening furor that orcish warriors who were devouts of their dark god could call upon in battle. He had seen it only at a distance during various ambushes, but those undergoing the transformation were riddled with arrows as soon as they showed signs of change, never getting a chance to do real damage. He had never been this close and had he known of this strength and speed, would have stayed back. Aoden was barely keeping up.
No. ‘Keeping up’ was generous; each strike from the orc barely missed being a fatal jab to the neck, head, or heart. Aoden was giving up ground rapidly, leaping backward with each strike to avoid certain death, scattering the few halflings brave enough to stay and watch. He was too busy staying alive to even counterattack, for even if the orc left himself open, he closed that opening too swiftly for it to be taken advantage of.
Aoden saw the orcish woman’s head fall back onto the road, whatever strength left in her gone, blood pooling beneath her at an alarming rate. She was unconscious and would be dead in a few minutes. Whoever she was, this huge beast had stalked her here just to deliver the fatal blow.
A sudden shout and the clatter of metal footsteps told Aoden that much-needed help was coming. Around a corner rushed four halfling guards, each carrying a spear as tall as a man and a shield that was considerably less so. They sprinted towards the scene, circling the orc with only the briefest exchanged commands. Considering they were constables of a peaceful town and unused to anything more dangerous than a mild drunken brawl, they didn’t hesitate to put themselves within reach of a violent brute three times their size.
The orc whipped his arm around, catching the guard on his right across the shield, knocking him through the air. Aoden and the rest of the guards took the opportunity to strike, dealing several quick if minor wounds. Outnumbered and surrounded, the orc’s speed was no longer enough. The orc punched at Aoden blindly, getting a cut from Aoden on his wrist and several more spear strikes for the attempt. He w
heeled about, thrashing at the guards and snapping one of the spears, but Aoden’s blade found purchase in his chest from the side. The orc attempted to whip his head around but only succeeded in foolishly forcing the sword into his body. Infuriated, he grabbed the sword and pulled it deeper into his own torso, trying to drag Aoden towards him in some insane attempt. Aoden released his grip and stumbled backward as the orc swiped at him, so surprised by the move that he could react no other way. The tactic did the orc no good, however; he managed one last feeble swing at the halfling guards but, with a peppering of spear strikes, he sank to the ground and lay still.
Aoden allowed himself a moment to catch his breath and eye the corpse. He had always heard the bloodlust drove orcs to madness in battle, but what he had just seen was beyond madness. It was plainly suicide for the orc to willingly injure himself in that way just to score a kill. But there was a bleeding woman—an orc, no less—that he mustn’t forget. As he turned to find her, her limp body was pressed into his arms by some unseen force. He nearly buckled under her weight.
“Take the girl to my place,” cried a tiny voice below him as a halfling ran under his outstretched arms. He looked at the girl. The flow of blood from her back had lessened, but she looked pale. Then he realized that she wasn’t a pale green, but white, her features completely human. His confusion made him hesitate for an instant, but upon seeing the speaker streaking off, he understood. He gave a glance around at the guards who were ensuring the orc was dead and attending to their stunned comrade.
“Go on!” one of them shouted, waving Aoden on. “Before she bleeds to death, you dolt!” If they had any idea that this woman was actually an orc and not a human, they gave no indication.
Aoden slung the woman over his shoulder, turned, and bolted after the halfling.
End Part I
Intermission II
The Impious
The D’ghali awoke. He sat up with a groan of effort. One of his apprentices noticed and moved to his side.
“What troubles you, master?” asked the young orc.
The D’ghali set his eyes on the inquisitive youth. Though an orc well past his prime and edging towards death, his gaze was piercing and ungentle. “Khala is dead,” he stated flatly.
The young orc’s eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly, but he quickly hid his surprise. With an impassive face, he said, “So my brother failed.”
“It is so,” answered the D’ghali. The young orc’s reaction meant he just failed an impromptu test.
It also meant he passed a much more important one.
The D’ghali waved for the young man to approach. “Help me stand.”
The apprentice offered his neck for the D’ghali to grasp and placed his arm around the D’ghali’s back, though he did not lift, allowing the old orc to stand under his own power as was proper for one of his pride and position. He gestured for clothing, taking the offered robed and covering his withered, naked body. He then grasped around the back of his bed until his hand fell upon his walking stick, then gestured for the young man to follow him as he left the room.
The boy asked no further questions, content to follow the D’ghali as they walked down the hallway. Others moved past them, bowing to the D’ghali as they went, but they moved on trained, silent feet so that no sounds could be heard save for the solid tak tak of his walking stick on the stone tiles below and the occasional distant shout drifting through a window. On a whim, the aged orc shared the details with his apprentice. “Khala fought foolishly, impatiently. He could have waited to take his kill, but he let the cold eat at his nerves until he was raw-edged. He was surrounded and killed by halflings of all things.”
His apprentice allowed the corners of his mouth to turn downward slightly, his only sign of displeasure at hearing this news. “Do we send another?”
The D’ghali shook his head. “It was a contract of the first form,” he said. His apprentice knew this to mean that the attempt on the witch’s life was enough to fulfill their obligation, regardless of the outcome. It also meant it was a cheap contract that was not worth the life of one of their assassins. Still, it was better than having to send another in Khala’s place, for their client did not have the means to pay for a higher form.
“That, at least, is fortunate,” the apprentice opined.
The old master grunted agreement and they continued in silence. At length, they passed a doorway opening onto a balcony and the master moved toward it. The apprentice was right on his heels but threw a glance down the passage where the meal hall sat. If he wondered why his master was changing his waking routine, he kept it to himself.
The D’ghali looked a moment at the autumn sun, already moving toward the western horizon, two hours from setting. He took a deep breath of the warm, sandy air, then said, “Find Tullok Gavi and bring him here.”
His apprentice bowed and left to carry out the orders. The old man strode to the balustrade, leaning his cane against it and placing his hands upon the granite, looking out over the city below.
Veradu Alat, the Camp of the Ashen-Mouthed, though it had been long since this place was a mere camp. Great buildings of dark rock rose on all sides, many five or six stories tall, with intricate designs and runes carved down the sides. Balconies like the one the D’ghali stood on dotted their sides, orcish men and women taking leisure between devotions to their Father.
These pillars held thousands, and at their center was the great Temple of Kenta, a dark pyramid rising from the red sands. There was no holier place in the world for His children, and they were Talaht Malviat Aset, The Unerringly Devoted, Kenta’s most favored, his hand upon the world. They lived for him, and so would they die for him, for it was only his love that they valued.
And yet the D’ghali did not look happily upon his Father’s city, for his mind and heart were heavy with a great blasphemy: he loved his people too much. He was a withered old fool who looked upon Kenta’s unleashing, little more than a year hence, with a dread that was shameful. He, like his people, should revel in the glory. To be able to raid the lands that once belonged to men again, to burn it and sunder it and raze it for his Father, should be his only goal in this life, but he remembered the Ashen-Mouthed. He remembered how they were Kenta’s favored, just as all clans were that held this city. He remembered how they had led the charge against the humans nearly nineteen years ago.
And he remembered how they were no more.
And while he could behold his own shame, he felt no remorse for it. What sort of leader was he? His people deserved a D’ghali who had the steel heart to die for his Father, and the courage to end his own life should he lack that heart. Yet here he stood, watching, waiting to spill forth yet more blasphemies.
“Tullok Gavi,” he said. He had neither heard nor seen the Tullok but could feel his presence.
The Tullok bowed. “It is good to see you, my D’ghali,” said the other. He was nearly as old as the D’ghali but still strong, moving without the need of a cane. “What can I do for you?”
The D’ghali sat heavily on a stone bench. “More visions,” he said.
The Tullok nodded understanding. “More darkness?”
“Yes.”
The Tullok turned to the apprentice. “Leave us.”
“No,” said the D’ghali as the youth began his bow. “He stays.” To the Tullok’s look, he said, “He’ll need to know much. Close the door.”
The apprentice did as instructed. He didn’t know what was passing between the two men, but they seemed to come to an understanding.
The D’ghali indicated seats. “Gavi, please sit here. And Gurrik, sit here.” His apprentice didn’t move, so the D’ghali waited, staring.
The apprentice stood by for a long moment, waiting for something to happen, but the two men were content to sit in silence. Finally, the apprentice presumed that it was for some reason, and spoke. “We apprentices do not deserve names—” he began, ready to rattle off the rules he knew by heart.
“And your t
raining holds,” interrupted the old D’ghali, “but I use your name for a reason. Today we put our ranks aside. Today, we are not a D’ghali, a Tullok, and an apprentice, but three men who have serious matters to discuss. Now, sit.”
Gurrik hesitated only a moment more, then swiftly took his seat, though he remained rigid.
Gavi turned to the D’ghali. “The boy seems to still be mired in his training. Are you sure this one is the right one, Pavi?”
Gurrik looked mortified and tried to stand, but the D’ghali put a surprisingly strong hand on the youth’s shoulder and forced him back down. “As I said, our ranks are put aside. While we speak, you will use my name as my brother has, understood?”
Gurrik nodded, but no matter what they said of ignoring ranks, he couldn’t put from his mind the fact that he was talking to the two highest-ranked men in his order.
Gavi added, “I must also ask that you refrain from using our Father’s name while we speak, lest we draw His attention.”
At this, Gurrik slid out from under the D’ghali’s hand and scurried for the door. He tried to turn the handle, but it did not budge. He pulled on it as hard as he could.
Gavi turned to his brother. “Are you sure about this one? He seems… prone to panic. Disorganized with his goals.”
D’ghali Pavi grinned. “I’ve been watching Gurrik for a while. What I see is a boy who tries to be one with our rigid system, but knows when and how to bend when it suits him.”
“But it seems he might be lacking composure and intelligence. I don’t think he realizes you blocked the door with a sealing spell.”
Pavi chuckled. “So he still needs work, but he has shown that he learns swiftly.” Raising his voice, he called out, “Boy! Return to your seat.”