Orcblood Legacy - Honor

by Bernard Bertram

  Chakal was a blur of motion. As he fell within arm’s reach of Malice, he allowed her to swing her serrated sword downward toward his shoulder. Then his body twisted, using as slight a movement as necessary to let the weapon sweep down harmlessly a finger-width away. Already, in that first swing, Malice’s assumption of being no match for the elf was confirmed.

  She hid her surprise, though, as the curved dagger in her left hand pressed forward toward his exposed abdomen—a fast attack that would likely stick any common foe with ease. But Chakal was no common foe. The elf could have easily parried the strike; instead, he shot backwards. In the time it took her to extend her arm halfway, he had managed to spring nearly back to his original location. Elves were known for possessing heightened agility and strength, but this was much more than that.

  Chakal’s smile never left his face. “Come now, I have been waiting for this moment for years. Did you really think I would allow it to end so quickly?”

  The woman screamed in frustration as she once again charged toward her foe. Her tactics would need to change, she knew. She needed something, anything, to catch him off guard. But what? How could she ever hope to defeat such an opponent? As she closed the distance, she opted out of a straightforward assault and dipped her sword into the ground. Sword planted into the earth, Malice shifted her momentum by tightly gripping the pommel of her imprisoned weapon, spun around it and kicked at the elf from his left side.

  A rudimentary, flourishing attack—one more for flashiness and surprise than actual effectiveness. Chakal sighed as he simply raised a hand to intercept her foot, grabbing it in mid-air. Thrown off balance, Malice fell to the ground, the elf still holding her by the foot. “Is this what I have waited for?” he asked, growing irritated. “This is pathetic! More! Show me more!” he yelled as he shoved her foot away harshly.

  Flipping onto her back then back onto her feet, Malice placed her hands on her hips as she scowled back at him. “Why? Do you really need the recognition that you are better than me? Is it not obvious? What is the point?”

  Finally, his smug smile was wiped from his face. The assassin’s shoulders slumped as his head drooped downward. Had she struck a nerve? A glimmer of hope flickered in her mind. Perhaps he would spare her? Chakal lifted his head slightly with a small inhale. “I can see now that you are indeed not worthy.” His hands fell to his sides limply, still holding his curved weapons loosely in his grip.

  She had done it!

  Against all odds, Malice had survived the encounter. An internal scream of joy filled her mind as she fought back tears. Her eyes glanced over to Bitrayuul and Tormag who looked on in confusion, not knowing what had just occurred.

  “Ahahahah! Really? You bought that?”

  Malice quickly returned her gaze to the elf. Her eyes went wide in horror as she realized he had simply been toying with her emotions. Did his torment know no bounds? She let out a groan of frustration. “Just leave me alone!”

  His stupid sneer was present again, this time even wider. How he enjoyed playing with his food. Chakal had devoted his life—a thousand years—to becoming the most lethal assassin the world would ever know. There was more than one way to bring fear and intimidation to an opponent than just your skill with a blade. His monstrous appetite knew plenty of ways to break the resolve of an enemy. That, he thought, was what made a true assassin. A knife in the back was just one simple way to end a life. No fun when there were so many deliciously brutal alternatives.

  Chakal continued to laugh maniacally as he sprinted toward his prey with lightning quickness. Malice’s dagger hardly had time to raise as he struck with his own dagger, glancing the blow to the side. “Fight!” he shouted as his sword sliced through the air directly toward her exposed neck. Still off balance from the sudden assault, Malice angled her sword tip to align with the incoming weapon.

  Clang! The sound of steel rang through the air as his sword clashed with hers. His strength was too great. The force behind his swing caused her own blade to cut into her shoulder. She winced from the sharp pain, but she could tell the wound was superficial. “Survive!” Chakal yelled to her face through his grinning teeth, and with another swipe of his dagger, he cut the skin along her torso before she could raise her dagger to deflect.

  The woman cried out in pain, fell back a step and quickly glanced to inspect the wound. Skin deep again. He was toying with her still! Her eyes turned to Chakal who stood—with that stupid smile! —staring at her as he licked her blood from his dagger.

  “Not yet,” he stated coldly.

  His next attack came even faster than before. Another failed attempt to prevent the blade from tearing her skin followed by another yelp of pain. This time, he did not relent. “Bleed! Bleed! Bleed! BLEED! Paint the earth like your sweet Lilyana. Take up your brush and spread the strokes of crimson for all to see!” he shouted in his frenzy as his superficial slices cut through her skin at speeds she could never hope to parry. His onslaught was vicious. Malice could not even comprehend his movements. Each blinding cut made her wince in pain. Instinctively she shut her eyes for just a moment. By the time they opened, she had been cut twice more.

  Blood dripped slowly down her arms and legs. She was not majorly harmed anywhere, but Malice knew her fate was sealed. There was no hope. Her hands fell limply to her sides as the air stung her wounds in bitter pain. She wondered why she was even here at all. If she had only continued to deny this monster his game she would have survived for longer. Memories of Lilyana flashed through her mind. No! I cannot! She fought her inner struggle against the pain, the hopelessness, the guilt. The images that her mind had repressed flooded back with vigor.

  She relived the moment that she had embraced her daughter as her entrails fell from her severed body. A girl of only seven winters, taken in a single brutal blow simply to tempt her to fight. Now, here she stood, fighting a hopeless battle with the very monster who had orchestrated her greatest despair.

  Malice screamed in rage, fueled by her memories. The resource had finally been tapped. A sealed door within her conscience that had been bolted shut for the threatening substance inside was too volatile. But there was no choice. No other option. She had to break down the door and embrace the pain. She charged forward with her mental state nearly broken, striking swiftly in murderous abandon.

  “Yes! There it is! The rage I knew was dwelling inside you! Let it out! Let it breathe life into this fight!” Chakal exclaimed. This is what he had been waiting for. This was the purpose for his pursuit. Malice often held to the pattern of running in fear from her conflicts. However, he knew she was capable of something else. He knew she had a nearly limitless source of rage within her due to the events of her past—one that granted her such a rush of adrenaline and lack of logic that her only instinct was to kill in order to survive.

  Her assault came swiftly: sword slice, dagger thrust, sword thrust, dual slash. She battered forward in her fury, pushing Chakal back. Yet, in her state, she could not see him. All she saw was her own blinding rage as she continued swinging her weapons. Attack, attack, attack, attack! Malice’s weapons whirred through the air as the gleams of steel were barely visible.

  Back further and further the elf went as pure instinct kept her moving, guiding her rage and spurring her movements. But she could not see him. Nor could she see his smile growing wider than ever before.

  “This is what I have been searching for!” he shouted loudly as she continued her assault. “Ahahaha! Finally! A true opponent!” Now that he had unleashed her full potential, he allowed her to remain on the offensive in order to gauge her. Above all else, he wanted to see her maximum performance, and he was not disappointed. Now was the time for the real challenge.

  Chakal shifted his stance, flicking his weapons outward in a simultaneous parry of Malice’s sword and dagger. With her torso unguarded, he thrust both of his weapons forward. Her sword managed to tilt inwards and deflect the elven sword from her body, but his dagger slipped through. His glee was appar
ent as he felt the blade sink deeply into the side of her stomach, just above the hip and below the kidney. His glee was short-lived, though, as her own dagger plunged through his right shoulder.

  He gritted his teeth through the pain and cursed his own stupidity. How could he forget her current state of abandon? She felt no pain, only the emotional turmoil he had set free. Normally his strike would have stolen the strength from his enemy’s counterattack. But without pain there was no interruption to her retaliation. Chakal pulled his dagger from her stomach and punched upwards with the pommel, striking her in the chin and breaking her balance.

  Malice’s dagger came away from his shoulder, dripping with the purplish blood of the elf. He kicked her leg just below the knee causing her to buckle. Her dagger hand fell to the ground to break her fall, allowing the elf to land a blow to her temple with the steel pommel of his dagger. Blood poured freely down her face and into her eye. Luckily, she had managed to tie up his left hand with her sword arm, preventing him from utilizing the longer weapon.

  Her rage began to dwindle as the blow to her head disoriented her. Chakal could have ended the fight then and there with a stab to the head, but he could not. The elf needed to bring her back to sanity now. His wish to see and challenge her at her best had been fulfilled. Even more so, she had managed to strike him, something no other challengers he had faced could claim. It drove him mad to the point of hatred that one such as her could break through his defenses and draw blood. The assassin wanted nothing more in that moment than to bring a much-deserved end to her life. However, he could not. Not yet. First, he must bring her back to reality so that she may see, know, and feel the pain he was inflicting upon her. Without seeing his effect written upon the face of his targets, he felt no thrill.

  The sadistic elf backed away as Malice blinked away the blood from her eye, breaking the disassociated concentration that fueled her emotions. No longer did she instinctively lash out in blind rage. Her head now pounded with the blunt trauma Chakal had inflicted to her skull, removing her ability to feed off of her memories. With that single blow, the limitless fountain of energy Malice had been using to improve her prowess had been sealed off once more.

  “Wh-what happened?” she asked in a daze, showing no recollection of her previous trance. She looked around and saw Chakal standing in front of her. Rising to her feet, the woman gazed at her weapons. Purple blood dripped from her dagger. Elvish blood! “I cut you?” Malice asked incredulously.

  Chakal’s face turned to a scowl. “It seems I underestimated you. No matter. You have returned to your former self. Our duel has come to its final stage,” he said coldly.

  Confusion still swirled around her mind, but the assassin strode toward her. Two paces away. One pace away. The elf raised his sword over her head, ready to land the final blow. Malice held her weapons in her hands but could only offer a pitiful defense against the inevitable attack. The blood trapped beneath her skull from the large bruise pressed ever more forcefully against her brain. Her eyes clamped shut from the pain and fear of the blow.

  Sword arm still raised, the assassin made sure to place the grin she so hated on his face again, despite her not looking at him. The small joy in knowing it would be the last face she would see made him happy. His arm began its descent, aimed directly for the top of her head, seeking to shatter the skull that contained her shattered mind. A fitting end, the elf thought.

  Twang! Chakal growled in anger, his expression shifting to hatred once more as the arrow sank into his right pectoral muscle. His eyes went from the shaft of the arrow protruding from his chest to its source. Bitrayuul stood a spear’s throw away with another arrow knocked on his large great-bow, Kwip.

  “Grr . . . This is not your concern, orc-kin!” the elf shouted.

  Another arrow flew toward him. This time, he caught the shaft in mid-air with his hand and threw it to the ground. Chakal’s arm was still raised above the quivering woman’s head. The assassin considered his next action before it was made for him. As the next arrow whistled in his direction, he simply vanished in a wisp of smoke.

  Bitrayuul and Tormag were already running toward Malice when the elf’s voice came from all directions, echoing off the trees. “It seems assassins are not the only warriors who lack honor,” he taunted with a maniacal cackle. “You have interfered for the last time. I will hunt all of you until the end of my existence and send you one by one into the abyss. Next time, there will be no hesitation.”

  The dwarf scooped Malice up in his arms and carried her back toward the tied horses. Irritated, he said, “Way t’ go, Bit. Now we got that madman after us, too!”

  The half-orc knew it was not meant as harsh scolding, but he could not help but feel guilty. What had he just gotten them into? Did he seal a fate far worse than the one Malice had been about to receive? He could not help but be concerned with his decision. Nevertheless, the fact remained. “I had to save her, Tormag. She is my mother.”

  Knowing better than to argue, Tormag kept his tongue. He dropped the woman lightly to the ground as Bitrayuul untied the horses. Once down, Malice continued her quiet whimpering while Tormag gathered their supplies. He popped the last few pieces of meat in his mouth so as to not waste them and slid his favorite cooking sheet back into his pack.

  Bitrayuul tied Malice’s horse to his own and lifted his father quickly into a saddle. After getting situated, the half-orc lifted the woman to seat her in front of the dwarf. He would have preferred to have her sit with him, as he was more comfortable on a horse and his stature could easily see around her. However, it was not possible with his armor. She would have been shredded to pieces. He clicked his tongue to urge the horses to move. With a quick glance behind to check that his companions were well, he kicked his horse into a gallop, steering it toward the south in continuation of their search for Fangdarr.

  After they had departed, Chakal stepped from behind a tree at the encampment. He gripped the arrow stuck in his chest with one hand and ripped it from his body. Within moments, the wound began to heal, as did the wound on his shoulder. The assassin turned to watch the party ride away and the smug grin returned to his face once more. “Hmm, back to the hunt, it seems.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  HungeR

  Though the night sky inundated their surroundings with an eerie blackness, Fangdarr, Cormac, and Bear managed to press through the remainder of the sopping marsh in a half day’s forced march until morning. Thank the gods for gifting both races the keen ability to see in the dark. Exhaustion tugged at them from all angles. Their legs were weary from the long journey through the harsh terrain and even their feet were in pain from the constant strain of being pulled from the muck with each step. Still, they pressed on. They had to. Despite their own bodies’ pleas, this was not a place to rest, they knew.

  After finally reaching the clearing by late morning, all three companions crashed to the ground—happy to finally be on soft, dry grass again. Cormac managed to force a bit of humor. “Bothain’s beard, orc, that’s the most I’ve walked in over a century! Me bones are achin’ somethin’ fierce, don’t ye doubt. I should’ve just swam down the Metridium with ye instead of runnin’ me stubby legs all the way around the damned lake.”

  Fangdarr gave a chuckle, as best he could between his own labored breaths, and turned and lay face down in the thick grass. He wanted to savor the feel of the green on his face. How he had truly taken it for granted. After spending a whole day in the pestilence of that dreaded wasteland, the feel of this simple, warm grass against his face nearly brought tears to his eyes.

  After a long while, the orc let out a groan and rolled onto his back. “You think this place safe to sleep? I want sleep . . .” he announced as his body continued to luxuriate in the downy surface.

  Cormac—who was already snoring lightly—simply let out a fart in response. The orc took that as an affirmation and closed his own eyes. Bear let out a massive yawn from her gaping maw before slumping down onto her belly adjacen
t her master. Fangdarr felt her fur brush against his hand and rolled closer to her, embracing her with his enormous arms. “Night, Bear,” he mumbled as sleep finally took hold.

  By the time Fangdarr stirred again, it was nearly dawn of the following day. He wiped the grogginess from his eyes and looked to his companions who were still fast asleep. The orc at first could not tell how much time had passed, but judging by the placement of the moon, he knew the morning was not far off. Careful not to wake the others, he slowly stood from his impromptu bed next to his beast. He stretched his body to free himself of his restful aches and cringed at the loudness of his bones cracking.

  “By the stones, Fang, ye might as well take up profession as an alarm to stir the nobles from their fat arses!” Cormac complained as he woke from the disruption.

  “Sorry,” the orc replied with a shameful smile.

  “Bah, what time it be?”

  “It almost dawn.”