War Wizard

by King, DB

  When he reached the edge, he dropped down onto the grass and pulled his axe free. With a battle cry, he rushed toward the orc commander. The melee fighters were still in the process of forming a defensive perimeter around the commander.

  But they weren’t quick enough.

  Logan closed his eyes and shut off Arachne’s rune, tapping into his Fenrir power and taking on the wulver form. This time, the wulver form was different. Due to his newly acquired rune from Maar, the wolf-man that he had become was also scaled. Mid-run, he once more tapped into Arachne’s power and allowed his fangs to drip with venom.

  The orcs regarded Logan with terror as he flew toward them. He could only imagine what they were thinking, seeing some snake-skinned man with the head of a wolf, venom streaming from his mouth. In that moment, Logan felt like a true War Wizard.

  He closed the distance, one of the orcs shoving a blade toward him. But his scales were solid enough that the edge only glanced at him. The orc, not prepared to hit something so solid, stumbled and fell backward. Logan opened his mouth and snarled, sinking his teeth into the shoulder of the commander and biting down hard. He squeezed his jaws, letting the venom flow through his fangs and into the commander.

  Once he’d delivered the fatal bite, Logan pushed off the commander and leaped away from the melee fighters. A few of the archers had shot ill-aimed arrows at him, leaving a few of the melee fighters stuck with their ammo.

  The commander turned to Logan and raised his sword, foaming blood dripping down the wound. He opened his mouth, likely to give the order to kill Logan. But he never got it out. He puked up disgusting, yellow fluid and fell into a heap.

  Marseille and the rest of the priestesses were in combat, using slim, curved blades to hold the orc fighters at bay, dodging arrow shots as they could. Where they had gotten the weapons was anyone’s guess, but clearly the women were resourceful. But even with the commander dead, Logan and the priestesses were still outnumbered. They needed Gareth and the rest of the soldiers.

  Thankfully, when Logan turned his eyes to the tree line, he saw that they were ready for battle.

  The two Naga warriors ran into the fray while the summoners launched snakes through the air. Most of the snakes flew by and vanished with shimmering magic. But many hit their marks, their fangs connecting with the orc fighters. The orcs responded with howls of pain, grabbing the snakes and pulling them off.

  Maar promised that the summoners would create chaos—and that was exactly what they got.

  Gareth and the other Naga warrior closed the distance between them and the orcs. Blades arced through the air, the edges sinking into the skulls and shoulders and sides of the orcs. Horrible hissing sounded as the Nagas battled. Orcs were known for their size and fearsome strength, but the Nagas made them look like trifles in comparison to their power.

  The battle raged on. The serpent summoners shot more snakes into the battle, keeping the archers from getting off their own shots. The Nagas quickly backed up Marseille and her priestesses, giving them space to cast more blood magic spells. And Logan helped where he was needed, tearing into the orcs with his venom-soaked fangs.

  After biting into the neck of an orc archer, Logan stepped back to survey the carnage. Nearly all the orcs were down, thick, dark blood soaking the grass. One of the Nagas let out a hiss as he shoved the edge of his orcish sword through the belly of a melee fighter, the orc’s eyes going wide as the blade emerged out of his back.

  He dropped, reaching up for a moment before letting his arm fall to the ground.

  The fight was over, and Logan’s party had won. After going around the field to shove his blade into the necks of any orcs who still showed signs of life, Logan gave the order for Gareth and the rest of the Nagas to shift back into their elf forms.

  Logan smirked. His heart was still racing from the thrill of the battle, but all he wanted was to fight another.

  He let the power of the wulver fade away. Fur sank back into his flesh and his proportions became more human. The process was still uncomfortable, but he was getting used to it. Light bled from the rune on his forearm.

  Marseille wiped her bloody hands on a dead orc’s rags. “Well, that was easier than we’d—”

  But it wasn’t over. One of the orcs stirred, his groans rumbling over Logan like an earthquake. All eyes snapped to the orc as he rose. Light shone from his back—runic light. Just as Logan’s tattoos glowed, now the orc’s back glowed a violent red.

  “Poison?” The orc groaned. “Cowards! Foolish cowards!” He spat a glob of a sickly green fluid, turning to Logan and baring his teeth. “You think mere poison can kill Buramog Grimtooth so easily? Behold!”

  The orc flexed every muscle in his body. The Naga warriors and priestesses stepped forward, their blades ready, but Logan put a hand out. “Wait,” he said.

  Buramog let out a cry. Birds fled the trees. The trees themselves almost seemed to tremble. The light coming from the orc’s back shone more insistently, as if trying to burst free.

  And then it did. A pair of wings—leathery like those of a bat—shot out of the orc’s green flesh. The orc’s fingernails became great sweeping talons.

  “You!” Buramog pointed a talon at Logan.

  Logan knew a challenge when he heard one—and he never backed down from a challenge.

  Marseille stepped up. “What should we…”

  “Hang back,” Logan said, loud enough for all his men to hear. “This one’s mine.” He drew his axe and rushed at his opponent.

  Buramog swiped, but Logan slipped it. Claws whistled through the air. Logan dodged them all, waiting for his moment.

  “Stand still!” Buramog groaned in frustration. Logan grinned as he slipped under another clumsy swipe.

  Now. He swung his axe as the orc overextended his swipe.

  And it landed. He cut the orc’s shoulder deeply—not enough to kill ordinarily. But this was no ordinary axe. Arachne’s poison fizzled in the wound, going to work on the orc’s green flesh.

  “Aaah!” Buramog cried, batting at the wound furiously.

  Logan stepped back, assuming his work was done.

  But the orc’s expression turned sharply, and he erupted into laughter. “Foolish human. You really thought poison would work this time?” He grunted and the wound sealed within moments. The orc scratched his now-healed shoulder. “Barely an itch, human.”

  Logan had to think of something—fast. But before he could decide what he would do, he needed to test the limits of the orc’s healing.

  “Then scratch this!” Logan rushed in and swung the axe again, slicing the orc’s belly.

  Buramog grunted again. One. The wound glowed softly. Two. The wound began to stitch itself back together. Three. Three seconds to heal a gash. But how long would it take to heal something bigger? Something more than just flesh?

  “Pathetic,” the orc said, shaking his head. “What do you think—”

  Logan slammed his axe into the beast’s foot, cutting it in half.

  This time, Buramog wasn’t just hurt mockingly—the beast screamed, howling as he pulled his foot free. Logan jumped back before the orc could land a desperate swipe.

  “What do you think?” Logan said, smirking. “Can you scratch that?”

  New bones erupted from the creature’s halved foot. Tendons followed them, rebuilding the orc’s foot. Veins crept over like snakes. Before long, new flesh covered the orc’s regenerated foot.

  Twenty seconds, Logan thought. Not long—but it was long enough.

  The orc wriggled his toes at Logan mockingly. “Alright, you damn flea, it’s time you—”

  Logan slammed his axe into Buramog’s left arm with enough force to break the bone. The orc swiped with his right claw as his left arm hung limp, already beginning to heal. Logan didn’t have much time. He dodged the beast’s swipe, returning a blow to the elbow and severing his forearm.

  “Bloody hellfire!” The orc’s wings struggled, trying to get his weight into the air and escap
e.

  But Logan slipped behind the orc and brought his axe up in a clean arc, severing both wings with a single blow. He kicked out the orc’s knees, sending the beast tumbling into the ground with a thud.

  “If I can’t kill you from the outside,” Logan said, drawing a handful of enchanted arrows from his quiver, “then we’ll just have to try inside.”

  “Inside?” Buramog’s eyes widened. “Wait, human, we can talk about this. I’ll let you have all the slaves—”

  Logan shoved the arrows into the orcs mouth. They wriggled, shifting from arrows to snakes in moments. They writhed down the orc’s gullet, almost bursting his throat.

  The creature’s arms clicked into place as they finally finished healing—but it was too late. He clawed at his throat and stomach. Beneath the green flesh, Logan could see the snakes thrashing against the orc’s organs. Buramog convulsed beneath Logan’s boot, thrashing against the stone floor, but it didn’t help.

  Before long, the orc was still. For good measure, Logan brought his axe through the orc’s skull.

  Marseille sidled up to Logan. “Well… remind me never to get on your bad side.”

  Chapter 21: Logan

  A pile of dead orcs was a sight that would never grow old.

  “That was… surprisingly fun,” Marseille said, her eyes on the mound of bodies. Gareth and the rest of the men were checking over the orc corpses.

  “Get used to it,” Logan said. “We’re going to have many, many more orcs to deal with before this is all over.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  Logan went over to Buramog’s corpse and turned him over. He was expecting to find a rune there, one that bore an Archspirit’s mark. Except he found nothing.

  Curious, he thought. I could have sworn there was a violent red light that had sparked before the orc had transformed and grown wings.

  Logan put the thought aside for now and helped with the cleanup.

  After surveying the scene, making sure the orcs hadn’t left any booby traps to worry about, Logan helped Gareth and the men with the last few bodies. Orcs were, at minimum, six-and-a-half paces tall and made of solid muscle. Between that and their heavy armor, they were near impossible to move.

  But Logan wanted them out of the town, their town, as quickly as possible.

  When they carried the last corpse to the pile, a trail of dark blood staining the grass behind him, he turned to Gareth.

  “That all of them?”

  “That’s all of them.”

  “Good. Set it ablaze.”

  “With pleasure.”

  The Maar-marked elf retrieved one of the many torches that illuminated the town and made his way to the pile. But before he could put fire to flesh, Marseille stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

  “These creatures killed many of my people,” she said. “Allow me.”

  Gareth gave Logan a look, one that suggested he was waiting for an order. Logan nodded, and Gareth handed the torch over to Marseille. She took it and placed it at the bottom of the pile. The corpses had been soaked with oil, which caught the fire and soon had it in a blaze. The acrid smell of roasting flesh carried through the town, the soldiers and freed captives watching the orcs burn.

  The mood was somber. Logan wanted to change that. The men had fought hard, and the freed townsfolk deserved a chance to unwind after what they’d been through. To that end, Logan stepped in front of the fire, the flames warm on his back, and addressed the crowd.

  “It’s over,” Logan said, his voice carrying through the town. “The orcs are dead, and for tonight we can rest.” He turned his attention to the townsfolk. The priestesses were among them, along with twenty or so men and women who appeared to be rank-and-file followers of Maar, townsfolk who took care of livestock and maintained the town.

  “What you’ve been through… I know it’s difficult. I know it’s difficult because I’ve been through it, too. I understand what it feels like to lose those you care about to these vile beasts.” Logan swept his hand toward the orcs. “But I know how good it feels to put them to the sword, to watch the life drain from their animal eyes. Your freedom is a small consolation for losing those close to you. But I give you more than that—a chance for revenge. With your help, I can turn this town into a bastion against the orcs. Either with plow or blade, you can be part of this war effort. Think on it. I look forward to hearing your decision.”

  He turned to his men.

  “To my soldiers, you fought valiantly. I’m going to need all the powerful warriors I can get in the battles to come, and I’ve no doubt that with an army of men like yourself at my disposal, we will have no troubles scouring the orcs from this land.”

  A thought occurred to Logan.

  “Tomorrow, we travel back to the caravan,” he said. “But tonight… I think tonight, we can enjoy some of that famous orcish ale—about the only damn thing those beasts are good for!”

  Cheers rose from the crowd. Deciding there wasn’t another word to be said, Logan stepped away from the fire and joined the soldiers as they entered the house where they’d found the orcish still they built to make their ale. Several barrels had already been prepared, and once a tap was put into place, the festivities began.

  Back outside, Gareth caught Logan’s attention. Two mugs of ale were in the elf’s hand, and he passed one over to Logan as he approached. The War Wizard sipped the ale, the bitter, blackberry taste with a hint of tobacco letting him know right away that it was orcish.

  “Be careful with that,” Gareth said. “One mug of orcish ale is like three of the human sort.”

  Logan snorted and grinned as he brought the mug up for another sip.

  “Trust me, this isn’t the first bit of orcish ale I’ve drank.”

  They leaned against one of the houses, both drinking their ale as they watched the festivities. It didn’t take long before Logan’s belly tingled with warmth from the drink.

  “I meant what I said,” Logan said to Gareth as he watched the soldiers and townsfolk and priestesses drink and carry on. “You fought well today.”

  “Thank you, commander,” he said. “It wasn’t easy. A patrol chanced upon us as we lay hidden. We took them down as quickly as they could, but not before one of them managed to call to the others. The fight was on before we had a chance to wait for the signal.”

  “You held on well. You were taken by surprise, and didn’t lose a single man. You should be proud of your leadership today.”

  He shook his head as he brought the mug to his lips for another sip. “A better commander would’ve been more vigilant about being discovered.”

  Logan couldn’t help but laugh at the elf’s perfectionism. “You’ll have more than enough time to hone your leadership skills. And should you do so, there will be more opportunities for you to command. Our armies will only grow larger, and I’ll need all the able leaders I can find.”

  “Thank you, commander. And there’s something I wanted to show you.”

  “What’s that?”

  He held out the mug for Logan to take, which he did. Gareth closed his eyes and shifted into his snake form.

  Logan realized right away what the elf was referring to. Instead of two arms, he had four—just like the warriors in Maar’s inner sanctum. And Logan could see something different about the forest-green scales that covered Gareth’s body. The snake-elf nodded toward Logan’s axe, a broad smile on his serpentine visage.

  “Strike me,” Gareth hissed.

  Logan couldn’t help but smile. This reminded him much of the drinking games he used to play with the other ranger neophytes.

  He took the weapon from his belt and struck Gareth in his scaled abdomen with the wooden handle as hard as he could. Gareth remained still as a stone, but a long crack formed up the handle.

  He shifted back.

  “You’ve grown in power,” Logan said.

  “That’s right. I’m stronger, my scales are tougher, and—”

  “The arms. Can’t miss thos
e.”

  Gareth chuckled. “That’s right.”

  “Have any of the other men changed forms?”

  Gareth nodded. “The other warrior, Jascal, has evolved, yes. That’s the name we’re using for the process. Perhaps the summoners have, too.”

  “We’ll have to find out. But for now, I want to speak with you and Marseille. Tonight is for celebrating, but we need to do some strategizing so we can hit the ground running tomorrow.”

  “After the hangovers have faded, of course,” Gareth said with a smile.

  “Naturally.”

  They tapped their mugs before heading back to the party. Once there, Logan caught Marseille’s attention and gestured for her to join them.

  “Something wrong?” she asked.

  Logan glanced over her shoulder at the array of buildings that comprised the town.

  “Which of these would be most suitable for a meeting?” he asked.

  She didn’t take even a moment to think about it. “The mayor’s house.”

  “You have a mayor?”

  Marseille smiled. “No. Our organization was a bit less formal than that. The mayor’s house is the biggest residential building, and we called it that as a nickname. After all, this town likely did have a mayor at some point, correct?”

  “Perhaps it will again. But let’s go there. I have plans to discuss with you both.”

  Logan, Gareth, and Marseille made their way to the house. The building was, as Marseille had said, quite large. It was three stories and made of solid brick with ornate stone flourishes to mark the separate floors from the outside. The windows were tall and arched, and it was clear more care and skill had gone into this building than any of the others save the church.

  They stepped up the stone stairs, and Logan opened the door. On the other side was a massive entry room, a wooden staircase reaching up to the second and third floors. And right away he noticed what a mess the place was. Food and plates and empty beer steins were everywhere, thick chunks cut into the walls suggesting one of the preferred pastimes for the orcs had been to get drunk and swing their weapons wherever they felt. Faded paintings of landscapes and stern patriarchs were ruined, covered in beer and grease and blood.