The orc snorted. “And what do I get when I win that I don’t already have?”
Justan shrugged. “If you win then I will be dead.” He kicked the orc lying beside his feet. “This orc will live, and you will prove to your men that you are not a coward!”
It was a gamble, but Justan was pretty sure that with his new found agility he could beat the orc.
Marckus growled, his mottled green skin turning pink with anger. The orc knew what Justan was trying to do and didn’t particularly care to give in to the human’s ploy. But the other orcs were watching him and he refused to let them think that his prowess could be challenged.
“Very, well, human. If you are that eager to die.” The orc chuckled to himself. This might be fun, anyway.
Justan watched as the orc called out to the hiding goblin. The creature scrambled over to a corner of the camp and came back with a long-handled scythe. The weapon was heavy and the goblin struggled not to let either end drag on the ground, fearing the wrath of its master if the weapon got dirty. It was a magnificent weapon. The shaft was about five feet long, capped on one end by a sickle blade and on the other end by an iron ball.
Justan wondered why the weapon was made with that iron ball on the end. Normally with a scythe, or any similar weapon like an ax, only the attacking end was weighted, making it easier to maneuver the weapon during battle. If the handle were weighted, the weapon would become unnecessarily heavy and awkward.
Justan finally understood the purpose of the counterweight once the goblin had handed the scythe to the orc. Marckus twirled it over his head like a quarterstaff, which was a weapon that had to be weighted equally on both ends.
Marckus saw the unease on Justan’s face and grinned. The orc leader spun the weapon through the air with both hands in complicated patterns, passing the blade dangerously close to his bulky body. He twirled faster and faster, letting the weight of the weapon lead the way, until he finished with one hand on the ball and the entire five-foot length extended straight out, his arm taking the strain of that extra weight with barely a quiver.
The orcs roared in approval of their leader’s prowess. Justan had to force himself not to be impressed as well. For a moment, he pondered going into one of the more impressive dual sword forms, but then he thought of the absurdity of it all, showing off to a bunch of eager orcs. He didn’t want to show his skill and make Marckus cautious. He wanted the orc angry.
Justan put on his most impetuous face, twirled his twin swords exaggeratedly with his wrists and stabbed the orc lying prone on the ground in the buttock with his right sword. The four standing orcs gasped. Justan looked down.
“Oops,” he yawned and leaned on the pommel with his elbow. The orc awoke and howled. Justan kicked it in the head to silence it again, and looked at the leader. “Well I’m ready. Are you?”
Marckus snarled and gripped the shaft so hard that his knuckles turned white. He wasn’t mad about the humiliation of his fellow orc, but at the arrogance of this young human, mocking his battle dance. The orc decided to take this opportunity to prove a point to his soldiers.
“You are going do die horribly,” he promised.
Justan charged the orc, figuring that it would not expect the attack. In fact, the orc had also been about to charge, so Justan’s offensive did catch it by surprise but the orc was experienced and swung the scythe end of his weapon to meet the human.
Justan saw the swing coming and flipped over it. As he landed on his feet, he whipped his sword out behind him, gashing the orc’s outer thigh.
Marckus hissed with the pain, but continued the rotation of his swing, twisting its upper body to bring the ball-end of the staff in line with Justan’s head. The human was already darting out of reach. The ball came close, but whizzed by harmlessly. Justan had claimed first blood.
The orc ignored the wound and struck back with a series of quick right and left strikes. Justan was able to block the attacks, but the orc was strong and his weapon heavy. Each block jarred Justan’s arms to the bone and he knew that this sort of defense wasn’t going to work. He would weaken too quickly and one blow from that weapon could kill him. He needed to find out the leader’s weaknesses.
Justan was able to get Marckus back on defense with a couple of easily blocked jabs and then worked his swords with a fury, not trying to score an easy hit, but to keep the orc from striking back. He went through a blinding series of attacks, getting in closer and closer to the orc where it couldn’t defend itself as easily. He was able to nick the orc a couple times about the hands, but the orc wasn’t allowing an opening large enough for him to do any real damage.
Finally Marckus had had enough. With a roar he extended his weapon to full length, grabbing it by the ball, and swung it like a club. Justan saw the swipe coming and jumped, but was not quite quick enough. The scythe edge grazed his back, slicing through his sword straps and into his skin, leaving a long gash across his shoulder blades.
Justan didn’t know if he could defeat this orc. His skills had improved greatly, but Marckus was a veteran of many battles, while Justan had only recently experienced serious combat. The orc was strong and fast. Justan desperately needed a new strategy.
He began to taunt the large orc and stay just out of its attack reach. When the orc lashed out, Justan would slice at its arms or elbow, or whatever he could hit and get out of reach again. Marckus countered by darting forward as he struck, hoping to catch the quicker human before he could jump out of the way.
Justan’s back burned with the pain of the cut and the straps that had been sheared by the scythe whipped about maddeningly as he moved, irritating him. He broke away from the orc and managed to pull the sheaths off of his back. Instead of throwing them to the ground, he threw them at Marckus. The orc batted them away, never taking his eyes off of Justan.
Justan’s eyes darted about, his mind searching for anything he could use to his advantage. Marcus wasn’t giving him many opportunities to attack. The orc’s aggressive fighting style kept Justan on his heels. Marckus was getting faster and faster in his movements, and Justan was running out of ways to evade him.
They battled about the fire until Justan was forced near the orcs holding his friends. He got too close and one of them kicked out at him, catching Justan in the hip and putting him off balance. He barely dodged a swing by the orc leader. In retaliation, Justan took a swipe at the orc who had kicked him, but the beast ducked the swipe, and the tip of his sword scored Qyxal’s cheek instead.
“Sorry!” Justan yelped out and Marckus used the moment to his advantage. The orc twisted around and extended his weapon, grasping it near the blade of the scythe. Justan didn’t see the orc extend the weapon because for that fraction of a second, the orc’s back was to him. As Marckus twirled around, Justan was too close to jump out of the way of the incoming attack. Instead he lifted his left sword to block the weapon, but the strike landed too close to the hilt. It was a powerful blow, and with the effort of blocking it, Justan felt something in his left hand snap. Pain shot up his arm into his shoulder. The sword dropped from his fingers.
Everything slowed down for Justan. He knew that he was done for. He could never hope to defeat the skilled orc leader with only one sword and the intense pain in his hand distracting him. As he heard the low voices of the orcs shouting in triumph, he saw his last hope. Before Marckus could strike again, Justan dove for his bow and arrows that the orcs had discarded on the ground. He grabbed one of the fallen arrows with his right hand and reached for the bow with his left. Pain shot through his arm as his palm hit the weapon. He hoped that he could force his fingers to close around it.
Justan hit the ground and rolled, coming up to his knees. He twisted around and brought the bow up with his crippled left hand. He wasn’t able to grasp it fully, but had it hooked between his thumb and forefinger.
Marckus bore down on him and was just a few feet away when he saw what the human was doing. Instinctively, the orc brought his weapon before him with both h
ands in a blocking gesture, but he underestimated the power of the Jharro bow. Justan smoothly drew back and fired.
The orc’s block was amazingly accurate. The arrow hit the staff right between his hands and splintered it in two with concussive force. The arrow continued into Marckus’ chest and lifted him five feet off of the ground. The orc arced through the air to land on his back just in front of the fire, the splintered remains of his powerful weapon still clutched in his fists.
Justan quickly fumbled for another arrow and turned to the orcs holding his friends, but they were on the ground asleep. Justan’s slice across Qyxal’s cheek had cut through the gag and the mage was able to release the sleep spell that he had been preparing.
Qyxal stood there, still bound tightly and hooted in joy. “Justan! Hurry and cut me free so that I can wake Vannya.” She had succumbed to the spell as well.
Justan pulled his dagger with his good hand and sliced the bindings on the elf. Qyxal quickly scrambled to his fellow mage, muttered a few words and laid a single finger on her forehead. Her eyes opened.
As Qyxal woke Vannya, Justan used his sword to cut the straps holding Zambon’s limbs to the stakes. The guard’s face was very pale and his breathing was ragged and shallow. Dried blood was pooled on his chest and ichor oozed from an open wound in his belly.
“Vannya! Get over here quick. Zambon’s about gone!” The mages rushed over and laid their hands upon the dying man. Justan cut Riveren free and helped the man to his feet. “Are you okay?”
Riveren didn’t answer the question, but with a variable glare at the sleeping orcs said, “Where’s my axe?”
Justan shook his head. “No, Riveren. They are helpless. We’ll take them prisoner, but we can’t just kill them like that.”
“Do you think that they would offer us the same courtesy?” the guard asked. Justan avoided having to answer the question.
Instead, he turned to Qyxal. “Will Zambon be alright?”
The mage ignored him, focused on the man’s wicked wounds. Justan saw Riveren find his double bladed battle-axe. Trying to remind him of their duty, he asked the man to help him bind the sleeping orcs. The guard reluctantly joined him. As they were tying the hands of the third orc scout behind its back, Riveren shouted out in alarm.
Justan turned to see Marckus, the orc leader standing over him with the ball end of his splintered weapon raised over his head. The orc’s face was twisted with rage. Blood was pouring out of the jagged wound in its chest and Justan could see the fletchings of his arrow barely poking out of it. With a roar that was mostly gurgle, Marckus swung the weapon at Justan.
He tried to dive out of the way, but the iron ball sank into his hip with a sickening crunch. Justan cried out in agony. He could feel bone grinding against bone deep within him and he knew his pelvis was broken, a crippling injury. The orc raised the ball for a killing blow, but Justan never saw it descend.
All went black.
Chapter Thirty Two
Fist journeyed with Squirrel for over a month before finding the place where he wanted to live. Along the way, he learned many new things. He learned to arrange his spider skin wrap much more efficiently to allow for freedom of movement. With the beasts he killed, he added to his clothing, making fur leggings and a cloak. Fist even developed a pouch for Squirrel to live in.
During the journey, Squirrel had become a true companion. The little creature now kept a perch on Fist’s shoulder where it could chatter at him without interruption and he could talk to it and tell it what he was thinking. This was a new experience for Fist. He never had a confidant before. Sure, he had warrior companions and hunter friends, but ogre conversations were mainly in grunts and gestures and nobody shared their feelings. Even his father had rarely spoken of such things with him.
It was strange, but even though Fist was sure that the little creature didn’t know what he was saying, it didn’t matter. He now had someone to protect and care for. He found nuts and seeds for it whenever possible and he saved the little creature from predators many times. In fact, Squirrel's pouch was made from the skin of one of those predators. There was nothing that the little creature had to offer in return but companionship, but that was what Fist needed the most.
Fist continued to develop his weapons as well. He made a spear for long distance throwing, which he also used as a staff, and made a belt around his waist that he could tuck his mace into.
They kept a leisurely pace in their travels. There was really nothing urgent in their search, but along the way Fist did look for a spot where he would want to stay. Deep down he needed a place that he would be proud to defend and call home.
Spring passed and soon summer was well underway. He and Squirrel headed out of the higher ground of the peaks and searched among the less rugged areas in the lower elevations. There was a lot more life out here and it wasn’t always the harsh, dangerous sort of life to be found in the upper regions. This southern range of the Trafalgan Mountains had leafy trees mixed in with the pines and there weren’t any warring tribes of giants or goblinoids in the area.
One day Fist found what he was looking for. They entered a small peaceful grove of leafy trees where birds sang and insects chirped. From the moment he entered the grove, Fist couldn’t help but smile. There were acorns everywhere and Squirrel leapt off of his shoulder into a nearby tree to scavenge.
He stopped to drink from a tiny spring that bubbled forth with fresh water. Nestled in the middle of this grove was a group of tall boulders. Fist neared the boulders and instantly felt a fondness for the place. He didn’t know why the presence of the rocks made him feel that way. Perhaps it was because they looked so out of place in the grove and it reminded him of his life.
The positioning of these boulders gave him an idea. He needed a shelter and there was a nice large space in the middle cluster of boulders that was more than big enough for his purposes. All he needed was something to keep the water off of his head.
Fist scouted around the area and found some dead trees including a few that had been struck by lightning. It took some time, but with his brute strength and some ingenuity, he was able to drag them over to the boulders. He leaned the dead trees against the boulders and climbed up to the top.
He pulled the tree trunks on top of the boulders one by one until they covered the right amount of space and lashed them together with leather strips from the pelts that he had collected over his journey. He then cut down great pine bows and stacked them on top as tightly as possible before lashing them down as well.
The next day, Fist stood under his shelter with great pride as the first great rainstorm of the summer came. His roof leaked, but most of the water drained off of the roof. Fist was satisfied. He had started the new home of The Big and Little People.
Weeks went by in his new home and Fist enjoyed life. During the day, he was either trying to improve his shelter or hunt for food. Squirrel always went with him on these outings perched on his shoulder and chattered at him about this or scolded him about that. Fist spent the evenings thinking by the fire and sleeping in his rugged house. Squirrel had its own crawl space between two of the boulders where it kept its horde of food, but every morning Fist continued to awake with his little friend curled up in the crook of his arm.
He began to expand the borders of his little home bit by bit, marking his territory with piles of rocks. Several times he had to chase off a trespassing bear and once he killed a rabid wolf that wouldn’t leave.
One day as he was wandering about a mile outside of his little territory walking along the edges of a small forest, he heard tiny voices. Fist peeked around a tree to see two little creatures playing by some rocks. At first he thought that they must be dwarves from the descriptions he had been given by his elders, but as he watched them play, he realized that they were children. Their ears weren’t pointed so they weren’t elves. This meant that they were human children.
Fist knew that he should have left as soon as he saw the things, but he couldn’t
make himself leave. He watched them for a while, entranced by their strange coverings and the carefree way they played. Any ogre children seen playing that loudly and not actually fighting would have been cuffed and berated.
The smaller of the two children wore one long piece of clothing that didn’t look like fur. The larger one had two pieces of material that were similar in look, but different colors. One piece covered its chest, while another covered its waist and legs.
Their speech was similar to that of ogres in some ways and he could make out a few of the words they said. They were playing a game where the larger child was a mighty warrior of some sort and the smaller child was a female he was protecting. Fist could not understand why a child would want to pretend to be a female until he realized that it actually was a female.
That was something else startling to him. The male and female child played together and the male didn’t hit her. He didn’t even ignore her, but treated her with courtesy and bowed to her before fighting his imaginary enemies.
The children laughed and played for a while until there was a ringing sound and Fist heard a deeper voice shout from a distance. The voice said something about food. The children screamed in delight and ran around the cluster of rocks.
Eye of the Moonrat (The Bowl of Souls: Book One) Page 34