by Alex Aguilar
Okvar swung his axe again and again, and Evellyn was struggling to block the attacks with the hatchet. Then the orc managed a deep cut on her arm, and she fell back with a cry of pain. He took a step forward, hunger in his eyes. And she looked up at him, the raging flames illuminating her worried face, blinding her as his massive shadow towered over her.
Okvar was mere seconds away from killing her when a blade suddenly swung at him. Larz and Henrik had reached the yard and were dancing around him, distracting him.
“Get to Beckwit’s!” Henrik helped Evellyn to her feet. “We’ll handle this.”
But Evellyn refused to run.
She remained in place as both Larz and Henrik attacked the wild orc.
Nearby, Adelina felt her chest pound as she watched. She had to do something. She refused to stand there safely while Evellyn and the farmhands risked their lives for her. By then, Aevastra and her child were safe inside Old Man Beckwit’s cottage. And the twins Margot and Melvyn were watching the fight from the doorframe.
“Stay here!” Adelina said to them. “Don’t you move!”
And then she ran off… The wind was blowing violently, and Adelina had to fight through it to keep running. Even from afar, she could see the farmhands struggling. Larz and Henrik were doing their best, but it was of no use. Okvar was large and powerful and monstrous, and it didn’t help that the men had been drinking just minutes prior. As they struggled, Evellyn sneaked by and tried to reach for the hatchet, but it was dangerously close to the Okvar’s feet.
Henrik went in with a jab, but the orc landed a heavy kick to his chest, forcing the air out of him. Larz watched as his friend fell to his knees and gasped for air, and he felt the rage grow in his chest. Unfortunately, rage did not suit the man well at all. It made him sloppier.
He attacked, but the orc blocked his blade with the steel handle of his axe.
And then with a powerful thrust, Okvar struck Larz’s blade so hard that it slipped from the man’s hands. The orc grabbed him by the neck and began squeezing, draining the life from him as he glared into his eyes.
Okvar then lifted him…
A strong beast, he had to be, to lift the man by the neck a good two feet from the ground.
Adelina was just seconds away from the yard. As fate would have it, however, mere seconds was all it took for Okvar to have the advantage.
Larz died first… Okvar had unsheathed a dagger from his belt and stabbed it into the man’s belly. And the poor man had no choice but to stare into the eyes of the orc as he took his last breath. To ensure his death, Okvar twisted the dagger inside, causing Larz to shiver like an injured animal before his eyes closed for good.
Okvar threw the man’s lifeless body onto the dirt.
Then there was Henrik. He grew horrified and enraged at the sight of his friend lying dead on the grass. He lounged forward and tried to attack but Okvar sliced him in the chest with the dagger and kicked him back to the ground, then placed a boot over his neck.
“Stupid bastard,” Okvar spit on Henrik’s face. “At least make me work for it.”
Henrik trembled, frightened for his life. This is it, he thought, and then turned his neck towards his fallen friend one last time before closing his eyes and accepting his own demise.
Before Okvar could kill him, however, a hatchet swung down and cut into the thick green flesh on his arm. He growled, loudly and ferociously. Evellyn swung the hatchet again, this time with a force strong enough that it sliced clean through the orc’s arm.
With a raging growl, Okvar confronted her again…
He stared at her, taking a moment to remember her face…
Those bright green eyes, that fiery red hair, those lips, red as blood…
Okvar was never one to remember a face. But he knew then, as he glanced at his missing right hand, his fighting hand, stiff and wet over a puddle of mud… He would never forget Evellyn’s face…
He landed a heavy blow to her jaw with his left hand.
She fell to her knees on the mud, the hatchet nearly slipping from her grip.
She felt the throbbing pain in her jaw, and as she opened her mouth a dribble of blood oozed out. She looked up. Okvar picked his axe up from the mud with his left hand.
A growl and a powerful upwards swing was all it took…
Oh no… Please, no…
She saw her life flash before her very eyes. She took a step back, but Okvar’s axe hit her with a vengeance. Even as she bent her neck back, she couldn’t avoid it.
She felt it, the cold sharp steel slicing her face…
Blood splattered into the air as Evellyn stumbled back, her mouth carved open and swelling with a throbbing pain.
She was hit… And she was hit badly…
She felt her face grow suddenly boiling hot as blood began to drip everywhere, blinding her eyes with a curtain of red.
She was done for.
One of the last things she saw was Okvar grinning down at her, only he was nothing but a dark and blurry shadow by then.
And then there was one last roar. A roar of agony.
The sharp tip of a sword cut through Okvar’s chest.
She saw Adelina Huxley standing behind him. And then the orc fell forward.
Adelina was holding Larz’s sword in her trembling hand. When the orc fell stiff onto the grass, she had no choice but to let go of the sword, as it was stuck to Okvar’s spine and refused to come out.
And just like that, Okvar was done for…
Adelina dropped to her knees in front of Evellyn.
The blacksmith could see her. Blurry and red, but she knew Adelina’s face when she saw it. Only the woman wasn’t smiling… She was horror-stricken…
Mister Beckwit and Henrik approached them, both with a similar look on their faces, a look of despair and shock as they gazed upon Evellyn’s face.
Evellyn could bear the pain no more… She felt her body grow tired and heavy…
And then her eyes closed…
“No… No, no, stay with me! Evellyn, stay with me, my dear!” Adelina cried. “What has he done to you? By the gods, what has he done…?”
* * *
The last ogre fell. There were nearly twenty arrows stuck to his back, and in the end it was a blade to the neck that killed him. Sir Percyval Garroway had swung his sword at just the right time, when the ogre slipped and fell back. A mere second too late and the ogre would have risen again.
The battle was over…
Sir Percyval walked around the bloody battlefield, shaking the dirt from himself as best as he could. “Gather ‘round!” he shouted.
Aside from a few grunts nearby, the place had gone suddenly quiet.
The recruits began to gather, or at least what was left of them.
The knight did not look happy. Even as he counted in his head, he knew his expedition had failed. His only achievement was walking into the Woodlands with a hundred men, losing half of them, and unintentionally replacing them with nonhuman recruits. Suffice it to say the knight needed a drink, and desperately so.
“Come on, gather ‘round!” Sir Antonn Guilara shouted from nearby.
Just then, however, two heavy figures smashed against an oak tree, breaking the silence. While over a hundred souls stood watching, there were two that were still locked in combat, a minotauro and an orc.
Both of them were tired and bloody… Both of them were violently stubborn…
“That’s enough!” Percyval shouted.
But the two beasts did not wince. They punched and kicked and wrestled one another as if they were the only two souls present in the field.
“Your knight commander says enough!” Sir Antonn shouted.
Toro then landed a heavy punch to the Beast’s jaw.
By then, the Beast was the last of the red raiders present and he knew it. If he was dead either way, he preferred to fight… He growled and charged forward. But the minotauro was waiting eagerly for him. One heavy punch was all it took. Toro’s fist smashed
against the orc’s jaw, and the orc fell back, and he felt the earth beneath him get softer and mushier all of a sudden…
His entire body sunk into a bottomless pit of quicksand.
The Wyrmwood recruits watched as the orc struggled to crawl back to firm ground.
Viktor Crowley could hardly bear it, having just been stuck in the very same pit just minutes prior.
The Beast was roaring angrily, and the Wyrmwood troop simply stood and watched. Just before the orc’s shoulders sunk, however, he was able to grip a nearby stone. It was loose, but it was the only thing keeping him from sinking entirely.
Toro stepped towards the pit, his horns ready to attack.
“No!” Sir Percyval said. “Leave him…”
Toro craned his neck. Though he didn’t speak, he didn’t have to.
His eyes were filled with rage and stubborn determination.
“Easy now,” Skye said from afar. The minotauro began to calm down, his large black muscles loosening. “It’s over, Toro… You don’t have to fight anymore…”
And with that, the minotauro walked away, leaving the Beast to die a slow death in the pit of sand. There was a long silence all around as the troops locked eyes with one another, some searching for their comrades, most of which were dead.
“What now?” Sir Antonn asked his knight commander.
“We must unite forces with my brother in Halghard,” Percyval said, though his voice was now weary and bleak, a hoarse whisper through heavy pants. “Otherwise we’ll lose the other half of our troop come morning…”
Viktor heard him and felt a relief in his chest. He tried to wipe the mud from his brows, but it was of no use. He was an utter mess. He had to jump into the river fully armored to remove all of the muck from his body. Regardless, he was calm now, calmer than he had been for days, in fact.
The mission is not over. You must keep fighting, old dog. Keep fighting…
He felt he could lie on the dirt and rest for hours, he was so exhausted. Then, however, a soft voice startled him, as it always did. Startled him and yet filled him with life all over again.
“I loathe ogres…”
Viktor attempted his best smirk, but it came across as more sad than lively.
“You fought well,” he said to Skye. “Do try and stay nearby next time.”
The elf raised a brow. “I never imagined I’d ever hear a knight say such a thing.”
“Yes, well…” Viktor cleared his throat. “It isn’t every day my life is saved by an elf.”
Skye wasn’t insulted by the comment. In fact, they shared a smile for a moment.
“Buy me a glass of wine and we can consider ourselves even,” the elf said.
“In that case,” Viktor smiled. “I might just buy us two.”
The recruits were mumbling amongst themselves as their weary knight commander Percyval walked around to examine the damage, with no one but Sir Antonn at his side.
Viktor took a moment to search for his men as well.
For a moment, his mind went straight to Jossiah, and he felt his heart start to race.
To hells with him, he told himself. Don’t give him a moment’s thought, Viktor…
He walked, chin held up high. And then he noticed a familiar face nearby. The raider woman with the blonde braids was sifting through a pile of rubble viciously with a panicked look in her eye. A few more recruits approached her, and among them Viktor saw the large figure of Thaddeus Rexx, with only a flesh wound on his left arm.
“Sister?” Daryan called, but Gwyn ignored him and kept digging.
There were smears of blood on her outfit, possibly hers, but they didn’t seem to be slowing her down. “Come on, come on,” she was mumbling anxiously like a madwoman.
And then Viktor and Thaddeus Rexx were able to see the rags beneath the rubble.
“Toothpick!” Gwyn mumbled. “Come on, say something…”
Viktor and Thaddeus began to help her, and within a minute they dug Cedric out.
The squire was a complete mess. He was covered in mud and drenched in ale from the barrels that the ogre had smashed. He had looked up at the wrong moment and his left eye was bruised purple and swollen shut from the blast.
“Cedric!” Thaddeus said as he dragged him away from the wreckage.
“Toothpick!” Gwyn dropped to her knees and shook the young squire’s shoulders. “Still there? Toothpick!?”
They lifted Cedric to a sitting position, blood oozing down the side of his face. There was a deep cut on his purple lip and the bruises had stained him all over. But the young man was surprisingly alive, and he somehow managed a weak mumble… “G-Gwyn…”
The woman sighed with relief, a look of dread in her eyes. Thaddeus hoisted Cedric into his arms and carried him towards the nearest cart, his thin legs dangling weakly in the air like a wooden puppet.
“Don’t talk, lad, we’ll get you cleaned up…”
Gwyn was hopping along next to them, with real and genuine concern in her expression, like an older sister caring for her brother. Viktor Crowley was just a few steps behind, beckoning someone urgently for a jug of fresh water.
“Th-Thad…” Cedric said weakly, specks of blood moistening his lips.
“I said don’t talk, lad. Not ‘til we fix you up.”
“Ye’ll be fine, toothpick. Stay with us!”
Cedric felt his entire body grow numb.
I’m alive, he repeated in his mind, almost as if trying to convince himself of it.
I’m alive…
XII
Ogres & Stonewalkers
Sitting calmly by the river bend, somewhere within the Woodlands, John Huxley and his two traveling companions were having their first meal of the day. Roasted wild rabbit, like the day before, and a handful of elfberries that Hudson managed to steal from the tavern counter when Miss Rayna was looking the other way. John wasn’t entirely thrilled by the idea of eating stolen berries, but they were many miles from the tavern by then and it was difficult to protest when his belly hadn’t been properly fed for the past week.
“These are incredible,” John struggled to keep the blue juice from oozing out of the side of his mouth. “We definitely don’t have these in Vallenghard.”
Hudson nodded back. “Banish an entire race of elves into the confines of the forest and you’re irrefutably bound to omit yourself from a few perks, mate.”
John glanced at the thief with a slightly baffled expression and said, “That was rather impressive, I’ll admit.”
“What was?”
“You have a way with words, I meant.”
“I’m a thief, mate, not an uncivilized arseling.”
“You mean like peasants?”
“I mean like kings.”
John couldn’t help but smirk at Hudson’s quick responses. The thief must have noticed, for he elaborated soon after, “Say what you will, but kings are often the most barbaric. It’s the power, mate. Too much of it can be toxic. Just ask Lord Ethelbert van Kurren.”
“But he’s dead…”
“Precisely.”
They sat in what appeared to be a safer part of the forest.
There was nothing around them but trees, dirt, and more trees.
Behind them was a large mound of stone, about ten feet high and several meters wide. John figured they could use it to their advantage, so as to prevent an ambush, and so they sat side by side near their dimly lit fire, their backs to the stone, keeping an eye on their surroundings. Syrena had taken a walk near the river, not too far from them. John tried to object, but Hudson reminded him that the witch knew a great deal more about the Woodlands than he did. She was, after all, home at last.
Hudson continued to bite into the crisp rabbit’s leg. He had taken only a few of the berries himself and let John have the rest. The farmer figured the thief had somehow eaten that morning without being noticed. In reality, however, Hudson never did trust the berries much.
“Seriously, these are unbelievable,” John
said. “Mum would certainly love to get her hands on these. I’m sure she’d find a way to turn them into a nice sweet tea.”
“I doubt that very much, mate,” Hudson remarked. “They’re perfectly safe when eaten cold. But you should never boil them. Not unless you want to die young.”
“What d’you mean?”
“The hotter they get, the more dangerous. The acid can burn through your skin.”
It may have been the surprise of it all, but John swore he could feel his stomach turning as the juice of the berries mixed with the hot rabbit meat. His expression made Hudson chuckle.
“How do you think I got this scar?” Hudson pulled his sleeve up to his elbow. A cluster of wrinkled spots marred the flesh on his forearm, craggy and brown, about the size of an apple and darker than the thief’s naturally tanned skin.
“Childhood accident?” John asked.
“You can say that,” the thief replied. “I suppose we’re all still children at sixteen… There was a lovely girl back in Raven’s Keep that grew rather fond of me. When she found out I’d been chatting with another, she grew rather enraged. She grabbed whatever was nearest to her and threw it at me. Just my luck, it happened to be a tankard of boiling elfberries her mother would use to keep rodents away from her garden.” He released a lighthearted sigh and added, “Ah, young love…”
John found himself chuckling.
Despite everything, he was finding comfort in Hudson’s company. The night at Miss Rayna’s tavern, it had taken about three drinks before the thief had warmed up to him; after a good half hour of acting like a stubborn child, he found himself arguing with John about anything and everything. From a debate about how a double-edged longsword was absolute rubbish compared to the speed of a single-edged rapier to a discussion about exactly how many husbands Queen Lyza of Ahari had in reality as opposed to what they’ve written in history scrolls.
And now, two mornings later, it was as if there had been no quarrel between the two men to begin with. Hudson even started calling him ‘mate’ again, which John was thankful for. It made the farmer feel more at ease, as if he wasn’t traveling through the Woodlands with foes, but rather amiable acquaintances; he didn’t know whether to call them ‘friends’ just yet.