by E. M. Hardy
“Such cowardice,” muttered Kurdan. Isiah thought the orc was referring to the onlookers, but then realized that he was referring to Isiah. “You do not even fight back. You whimper worse than a beast of burden without even offering a counterchallenge to your tormentors.”
Isiah gritted his teeth even as Blevins’ goons were dragging him behind one of the sheds in the school compound. “Easy for you to say, mister high-and-mighty chieftain of the orcs. You’re not the one who’s going to get pummeled five-to-one if you mess up. Even your own underlings cower when you do the bullying.”
“Hah!” Kurdan barked out in Isiah’s mind. “You compare your sniveling to my orcs, much less myself? My kind thrives on challenge, human! Did you think I became chieftain because I trembled underneath Zurgha’s rule?”
“Yeah? And what about the other poor saps who challenged your old chieftain—your father—and failed?”
“They are dead,” declared Kurdan without a hint of sympathy.
“My point exactly.”
Isiah went down with an ‘oof’ as Blevins’ goons threw him down on dusty, dirty ground. They were now behind the shed and far away from the prying eyes of onlookers—the perfect venue for what Blevins had in mind.
“Right! About those lessons on respect,” he spat out while cracking his knuckles.
Isiah gritted his teeth once more, careful to keep his tongue back. Last time he tangoed with Blevins and his gang, he had made the mistake of flapping his gums around too much. One bitten tongue later, and Isiah learned to be more mindful of the appendage.
And with perfect timing, for Blevins aimed the first punch at Isiah’s chin. The blow whipped his head to the side, stunning him and catching him completely off-guard. He expected Blevins to gloat a little, savor Isiah’s terror, or brag about one thing or another. No such luck this time around; Isiah’s tormentor seemed determined to dish out the hurt right off the bat.
Blevins cracked his neck to the side and frowned as Isiah struggled to regain his bearings. “Ah. That felt good if I do say so myself.” Blevins cracked his neck once more, rotating his arm at the shoulder to loosen up his muscles.
“Yeah, that felt VERY…”
One more punch to the face, though Isiah managed to squeeze himself smaller so that the punch landed on his neck.
“…VERY…”
Another punch, this time connecting with Isiah’s arm.
“…GOOD!” Isiah expected another punch; he did not expect a kick to the shin. He then went down, hissing in pain as he gripped his throbbing leg.
Blevins huffed out in satisfaction, shaking the tension out of his hands and feet. Isiah stayed down, his eyes shut tight as he dealt with the pain as best he could. He managed to open one eye and was surprised to see that even Blevins’ goons were surprised by the teen’s sudden, violent outburst.
“Hey, Charlie. Man, you alright?”
Blevins waved the man away, intent on continuing his torment. “Never better. Especially now that I’ve got this punching bag conveniently wrapped up for me.”
“HEY! DOUCHEBAG!”
Isiah breathed a sigh of relief as he recognized the owner of that angry voice. Kurdan, however, grunted in disgust at Isiah’s sorry state. “You didn’t even try to fight back,” he thought with as much disdain as he could attach to the message. “Oh, shut it,” replied Isiah. “You’re not the one getting pummeled to bits here.”
Eddison rounded the corner, along with Hasan, Bernabé, and Abigail following closely behind. His best friend huffed with rage as he tightened his muscled hands into fists. Bear shared the same sentiment, though it was almost comedic how his righteous fury clashed so grossly with his nerdy countenance. Hasan seemed pensive about the whole engagement, torn between avenging his friend and keeping a low profile. Isiah knew, however, that he would throw down when worse came to worst. Abigail, however, looked the scariest of the bunch. Her skinny frame hid a ferocity that many only realized when she was whaling on them with her nails and gouging out their eyes with her fingers.
“What you think you’re doing, huh?” challenged Eddy. “Get the hell off Isiah!”
“Oh look, it’s the politically correct squad,” sneered Charlie Blevins as his own goons converged around him. “Let me see. There’s the nigger, the sand nigger, the beaner, the dyke… and to top it off,” he added, kicking Isiah in the ribs with the tip of his toe. “We have the chink over here who’s pretending to be one of us just ‘cause his dad got a severe case of yellow fever.”
“Hey…” Isiah groaned weakly from his fetal position on the ground.
“What?”
“Don’t,” a low cough interrupted him before he groaned and took a deep breath to recompose himself. “Don’t lump me in with the Chinese. I’m half-Korean, you inbred, wannabe cracker. If you’re gonna be like that, at least use the right slurs.” Kurdan roared his approval in Isiah’s mind, failing to understand the full insult but completely understanding the barb behind it. Bernabé looked like he wanted to laugh out loud himself, but a sharp glare from Eddy brought him to heel. Isiah couldn’t help but smirk when he saw one of Blevins’ goons choke down a laugh. Isiah had his misgivings about provoking his torturer, but the puzzled look of Charlie Blevins made it all worthwhile to him.
That puzzlement quickly gave way to rage once the teen realized that Isiah was making fun of him. He didn’t say anything, just gave the curled boy another kick to the stomach. Fortunately for Isiah, he was expecting the blow and he pulled himself into a tighter ball to protect his sensitive innards.
Eddison roared in anger and was just about to lead the counter-attack when someone else let loose a loud, phlegmy harrumph.
“And what do we have here?” said Mister McDonald, squinting through his thick glasses as he took in the scene before him. Behind him stood Olivia Winters, her arms crossed and her lips glued together in concern.
“Beat it, old man McDonald,” grumbled Blevins, never taking his eyes off Eddison and the gang. “This isn’t any of your concern.”
“I beg to disagree, young man,” said Mister McDonald. “I know enough about you to figure out that you’re up to your usual shenanigans, yes?”
“I said beat it,” growled Blevins. “Go lay down somewhere else and let us young patriots clean up this country for you old timers.”
“No, Mister Blevins, I believe not. I don’t think my grandson died in Afghanistan for ‘patriots’ like you. Now… are you threatening me? Because if you are, you’re not the only one with powerful friends who would love nothing more than to bring down Congressman Blevins down a notch or two using his erratic, explosive son’s behavior.” The old history teacher nodded toward Olivia, who grinned as her phone recorded every detail of their conversation. She wagged two fingers at Blevins in a ‘come-on’ taunt, and the teen grimaced as he shook his head.
“The times are changing,” spoke Blevins with as much menace as he could inject into his words. “People are waking up to the threats surrounding our country. Your mother, Senator Winters and her ilk,” he added, directing his words to Olivia, “are the ones responsible for the attacks in California. Your complacency, your unwillingness to do what needs to be done to protect this country—you’ll be the ones to kill us all.” He spat, waving at his goons to follow him. “Unlike you PC politicians, though, more and more of us are willing to do more than just smile and say feel-good nothings to the camera.”
“Yeah, yeah,” shouted Olivia to Blevins’ back as he retreated. “Whatever helps you sleep better at night, you racist douche.”
Isiah groaned as Eddison and Hasan helped him up. Isiah shook the pain away and smiled at his saviors. “Could you not have timed your rescue a little better? You know, before I got a couple of boots to the face and ribs?”
“Shut it, Zeyah,” snapped Eddison, worry lining his face as he checked the extent of Isiah’s injuries. “Can you breathe alright? Feeling lightheaded? Nauseous? Taste blood?”
> Isiah waved Eddison away. “No, I’m alright. Pretended to be hurt bad, but he didn’t tag me as hard as he thought he did.” Kurdan grunted in Isiah’s mind, pointing out the numerous injuries that his ‘weak’ human body would have sustained without Kurdan’s blood magic. Isiah zoned him out as he focused on Olivia and his history teacher.
“Thanks, Mister McDonald. Let me treat you to…”
“Yes, yes,” waved the old man, sighing in exasperation. “Please stop there. That joke is almost as old as I am.”
“Why didn’t any of the other teachers help?” asked Hasan, bitterness lacing his voice as he scowled in the direction of the schoolyard.
“Don’t blame them,” said Mister McDonald. “They’re young, and tenure isn’t as easy to come by as it once was. A bad word from Congressman Blevins is enough to get them out of a job. Me, I’m going to retire soon.” The kindly old teacher chuckled as he took off his glasses with arthritic fingers and wiped them clean, a gentle old smile sprouting from his chapped lips. “Besides, what kind of grown-up would I be if I did nothing while something like this happens right in front of me?”
***
“Wow… this is amazing,” said Isiah as he goggled in amazement. He stood in front of a mirror inside an empty bathroom. His mouth hung slack as he watched the bruises on his chest and leg fade away. The forming black eye lightened up, while his swollen split lip sealed up and returned to its normal size.
“It is but a simple application of the blood magic that flows within all orcs,” said Kurdan within Isiah’s mind. “Even newly-birthed orclings learn how to cultivate something as simple as this within the first few days of their existence. It is what allows them to feed off their mother’s blood while they develop. Now stop preening over your unremarkable progress and get back to working your blood.”
Isiah inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and pulled his focus inward. His consciousness tightened, and he felt Kurdan’s familiar presence coast alongside his awareness. He traveled within his body and began inspecting the damage. He went over the organs a few more times and felt nothing serious. He did, however, encounter a few torn muscles right in front of his stomach. This was where he had absorbed the brunt of Blevins’ kicks, though he was surprised that he had missed the damage the first time around.
“That was because you were careless,” mocked Kurdan. “Now do it again, more thoroughly this time.”
Isiah clenched his jaw, wishing that he could smack the orc around. “Why don’t you come to my world and try it,” growled Kurdan. “Oh, come on!” barked Isiah within his thoughts. “It’s not fair that you get to read my mind!”
“Shut up and FOCUS, you sniveling creature!”
Isiah hissed in frustration as he refocused himself and brought his attention to the injury in his abdomen. He pushed and prodded at the wounded muscle, forcing the dead blood out and bringing fresh blood in. He held the individual strands in place and sealed them in with a thought. At the same time, he guided the blood up and out, bringing it into his mouth. He gagged and spat the blood out, which was so dark that it looked black against the white porcelain of the bathroom sink.
Someone gasped, which snapped Isiah out of his bodily inspections and brought him careening back to the larger world. A random student had walked into the bathroom, horror etched on his face as he watched the copious amount of blood lining the restroom’s sink. Isiah blinked once, twice at the stranger before nonchalantly turning the faucet on. He then hummed a tune to himself as he wiped the drool from his lips and spat out a little extra blood for good measure. He then turned the water on, rinsed his hands, and wiped the blood clean from the sink.
His clean-up done, Isiah patted his mouth clean with a paper towel and smoothed out his shirt before smiling at the stranger and walking out of the bathroom—pretending that everything was alright in the world and that absolutely nothing was wrong with it.
***
“You sure got lucky, didn’t you?” Eddison said as he inspected Isiah from head to toe. “I expected you to be down a lot worse than that, considering how Blevins was all over you and stuff.”
“Naw,” chuckled Isiah. “Charlie was mostly bark, not bite. Besides, he didn’t really hit me that hard,” Isiah lied through the skin of his teeth. If it weren’t for Kurdan’s aid, Isiah would have ended up in the hospital with a couple internal injuries.
“Good,” sounded Kurdan in Isiah’s mind. “Hide your weaknesses, play up your strengths. This is a good starting point for a weakling such as yourself,” lectured the orc. Isiah turned aside and rolled his eyes, unable to completely hide his disgust for Kurdan’s obsession with strength. Not that he disagreed, for the blood magic he taught was pretty convenient. It was part of the deal he had struck with the chieftain, and Isiah was quite happy with the timing of it all.
“Uh-oh,” murmured Abigail. “Trouble up ahead.” Isiah looked up and groaned as he saw Blevins and his gang waiting at one end of the schoolyard. They got up from their benches when they spotted Isiah’s gang, and the crowd between the two groups started to thin as they smelled trouble brewing in the air. Isiah smirked as he saw Bernabé speed up his pace, walking in front of Olivia to shield her with his body. Attaboy, Bear, he thought to himself as he fell back to the left side of the group—letting Eddison take the lead along with Bernabé.
“Keep it cool, guys,” warned Olivia as she flipped out her phone and made sure that Blevins saw her point the camera at him. “He won’t do anything stupid right here in the open. Just keep walking straight and we’ll be all good.”
Isiah and the others nodded. Unfortunately, Blevins had other ideas. They walked right in front of Isiah’s group and stood there, blocking their way forward.
“Get outta the way, Blevins,” Eddison said in clipped and dangerous tones. He refused to budge from his position, looking straight at Blevins as they squared off almost nose-to-nose.
“Make me,” taunted Blevins, not backing down either. Their groups were now face-to-face, Isiah’s six to Blevins’ five.
“You have the numbers,” whispered Kurdan to Isiah. “You can take him.”
“Are you crazy?” thought Isiah, his eyes locked on to one of Blevins’ goons. “This is all just for show. We’re not going to throw down right here in the open. And besides, we don’t want Abby and Livy involved in this.”
“They have hands and legs,” insisted the chieftain. “They can contribute to the fight.”
“No, Kurdan, we are not going to get into a fight right here.”
The orc snorted in disgust. “Fine. Then you can at least do something to undermine their position.”
Isiah listened to the orc’s plan. He grimaced at first, then slumped in resignation even though he understood what the orc had in mind.
Isiah straightened up, inhaled deeply, and forced himself to push through with Kurdan’s plan.
“Zeyah? What the hell are you doing?” whispered Abigail from his side.
Isiah plastered a wicked smile on his face as he detached himself from his group. He walked leisurely around Blevins’ goons, smiling all the while. The goon right in front of him cocked his head in surprise and nudged the other one beside him. The two of them rotated to follow Isiah.
Isiah found his position and stood there, crossing his arms. He walked leisurely behind Blevins’ group, forcing his goons to split their attention. Two of them faced him, while Blevins and two other goons were left facing Eddison and the gang. Isiah nodded to himself, gathering his determination once more, and walked closer.
When he was done, he was face-to-face with the other two goons. Blevins finally decided to turn around and focus his attention on Isiah.
“What? You want a repeat of this morning, chink?”
Isiah said nothing as he stood his ground. He narrowed his eyes and looked straight at Blevins, divulging no other emotion but utter contempt for the boy and his group. One of the goons smirked, though a slight twitch of the lips gav
e it away as a nervous tic. One of the goons stepped closer, attempting to box Isiah in, but Bernabé stepped up and wagged his finger at the teen. Another goon stepped back and shifted his attention between Isiah and Eddison, who curled his lips up in anger. The goon gulped and pulled himself closer to Blevins, the only one in his group that seemed undisturbed by Isiah’s reckless positioning.
Soon enough, the goons started inching away from their leader. Seeing his chance, Isiah stepped in slowly, aggression filling his every step. That was when Blevins decided enough was enough. He planted a hand on Isiah’s chest, pushing the teen back.
Isiah, however, had been expecting it. He didn’t’ budge; no, he didn’t let Blevins push him back. He kept walking, pushing back Blevins instead. He locked his eyes with Blevins, let the fury and the anger build up in those eyes. He wanted Blevins to hit him, more than anything. He wanted the weakling to give him a reason—any reason—to begin demolishing him. He widened his eyes, deepened his breathing, as his eyes roamed around Blevins’ entire body. An exposed neck he could step in and bite into, a wide stance that would let him rip into his groin, an extended hand he could latch onto and pin the boy to his body. Isiah was soft, yes, but Blevins was far softer than he was. And with the right ferocity, the right amount of focused rage, he could tear apart the creature known as Charlie Blevins. He could end his tormenter right here, right now. The humiliation would be so complete, so final, that Blevins would piss blood every time he saw Isiah. He would—
Isiah’s thoughts cut short as Blevins finally stepped back. “Huh,” said the teen, a single bead of sweat streaking down from his forehead. “You’re lucky you’ve got your friends right now, chink. But you won’t always be lucky. Better watch your back,” he hissed, pouring as much threat as he could into his words.
Isiah just stood there, crazy-eyed and silently fuming with barely-controlled anger as he stared the teen down. He continued staring at Blevins’ back as he turned around and signaled his goons to fall back. Isiah clenched his jaw, then forced himself to unclench it as he brought his body down from the battle frenzy that Kurdan had induced. His muscles spasmed and locked as his conscious brain started to retake control, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he forced himself to relax.