“Is it hard?” The old orc asked.
“Yeah,” Hadjar answered.
The orc nodded.
“It’s always hard to bear your Name. The call of the abyss is too strong. The abyss itself is too strong. But as long as you keep your Name, you don’t have to worry about being dragged into the darkness.”
“What did I see?” Hadjar’s hands were trembling slightly. “Those three years…” He remembered them clearly. “What was that?”
“Was?” The little orc said.
“Is?” The young orc growled.
“Will be?” The adult orc drawled.
“Has been,” the old orc whispered with finality, then tossed another bunch of herbs into the fire.
***
“Go on in, the shaman is waiting for you.”
Hadjar stood on the threshold of an ordinary tent, inside which an old orc was sitting by a small, regular fire.
Chapter 558
“What are you waiting for?” Bear’s Rage asked.
Hadjar staggered back and gripped his arm. He looked down at it. The tattoo still covered his skin from the tips of his fingers to his shoulder.
“I see,” Gurtan said. “May the Spirits guard you on your journey, North Wind.”
The orc touched his heart with his fingers, then his forehead, and then made another gesture, as if he were trying to convey something to Hadjar.
“What was that?” Hadjar croaked.
“A trial,” Bear’s Rage explained.
Hadjar turned away from the tent. He didn’t understand what had just happened. Glancing back, he snatched his knife from his spatial ring and ran it over his arm.
“I swear that I am Hadjar Darkhan.”
His blood flared and the wound instantly healed. The World River accepted his vow without leaving a single scar behind on his body. The oath had been accepted and then instantly fulfilled. Einen had once told him that this was a way to check whether he was awake or not.
“Was it a dream?” He asked the chief.
“Everyone gets their own test, unique to them.” Bear’s Rage frowned. “We never discuss them. Be proud, North Wind, for you have earned your Name. The war you fought for it is yours and no one else’s.”
“But who did I fight?”
The orc chief crossed his arms over his powerful chest and said nothing, hinting that Hadjar already knew who his opponent had been. Seeing his reflection in a puddle at his feet, Hadjar stared at those azure eyes. He knew who had appeared in that alley, who the smoke had formed into — himself.
“Our fiercest enemies live within us,” Gurtan suddenly said. “Defeat yourself, and you can overcome the world.”
“Thank you.”
“Let’s go.” Turning around, Gurtan walked toward the huge fire in the center of the camp. “Today is a holiday; we can talk business tomorrow.”
Hadjar followed him, listening to the strange, growling orc language and trying to shake off his memories of that drug-induced dream as quickly as possible.
“Was it all just a dream? It felt far too real.”
“Would you like a drink?” A female orc asked, handing him a bowl of something tart and pungent. Hadjar stared at her, then turned away.
“No,” he said, taking his pipe out of his pocket. “I don’t drink anymore.”
The orc shrugged and hurried to join the circle of dancers. They were all punching and kicking the air to the rhythm of the drums. Their dance looked more like a military exercise.
“Sit down,” the orc chief told him firmly, pointing at one of the blankets on the ground.
Hadjar noticed that he’d been seated next to young orcs who had no feathers braided into their hair. The young orcs greeted him. There was no hostility or disdain in their eyes. They didn’t mind that a human had joined them. They sat around the fire and watched the dance until the drumming finally stopped. The female orcs who served food and drinks froze. Everyone greeted the chief as he rose to his feet.
“Many moons ago, our great ancestor caught his first prey!” His deep voice boomed. “And he became a hunter, the first ever hunter, and earned his Name!”
The orcs roared in approval and struck the ground with their fists, making it shake.
“Many moons later, we still honor this tradition! Our young tribesmen continue to hunt! And those who catch their first prey prove themselves worthy of their Names!”
The crowd roared again. The old shaman approached the fire, the flames of which began to die down. In his hands, he held a dozen leather straps (and one string) adorned with feathers.
“Tiger’s Roar!”
One of the young orcs stood up. In absolute silence, broken only by the crackling of the flames, he approached the shaman and bowed his head. The old orc tied a leather strap around his head, then tore out a lock of his black hair and threw it into the fire. The flames surged and formed the outline of a tiger’s head.
“River Stone!”
Another orc went to receive his strap. His lock of hair, when thrown into the flames, formed the silhouette of a stone. Hadjar realized that the shaman was showing them their Spirits.
What the hell is going on here? Hadjar wondered. Once again, the orcs were disregarding all the laws of cultivation that guided human cultivators.
“North Wind!”
Hadjar got to his feet and walked over to the shaman. The old orc looked into his eyes and whispered so that no one but Hadjar could hear him:
“Your trial,” he said, “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
Hadjar shuddered. Had the shaman seen everything?
“Don’t worry, North Wind,” the old orc said, weaving the string into his hair. “I’m bound to secrecy by oath and honor. I’ll never tell anyone what I saw. But tell me, that world… did you really come from it?”
The firelight illuminated the shaman’s face, making him look like a stone statue that someone had breathed intelligence and the ability to move into.
Hadjar nodded.
The shaman took a lock of his hair and twisted it into a small ring.
“I feel sorry for you, human. You grew up in a terrible home.”
Hadjar peered into the flames; in them, he saw images dear to his heart.
“My home is far, far away, shaman. It is the Northern Kingdom of Lidus. Believe me, even if you travel around the world a dozen times, you won’t find a more beautiful country and a warmer home than that of my ancestors. That of Haver and Elizabeth, my parents.”
The shaman nodded and tossed his lock of hair into the fire.
It was widely believed that there were three kinds of Spirits that could live in a cultivator. The first, the weakest and the most common type, assumed the form of an animal. It only strengthened a Spirit Knight slightly.
The second, much rarer type, serving as proof of a cultivator’s incredible talent, assumed the form of a weapon. It allowed a Spirit Knight’s Techniques to reach a whole new level. A Knight who had the Spirit of an animal would never defeat a Knight with the Spirit of a weapon.
The third type was so rare that it was considered legendary. It assumed the form of a hieroglyph, a symbol that paved a Knight’s way to an element or to a Spirit of a Weapon hidden in the World River.
When Hadjar’s lock of hair disappeared into the fire, the flames formed the silhouette of a bird with large wings and two long tails. After showing off for a bit, it soared into the sky and disappeared.
“Quetzal,” the shaman whispered. “The Spirit of air, and the patron of freedom. That is a good Spirit, North Wind. It suits you.”
Hadjar went back to his blanket, feeling the azure feather swaying in his hair, resting on the opposite side from his Bedouin ornaments.
Chapter 559
“You should know, human,” Steppe Fang snarled, “that I am not happy that we’re going to be hunting the Dah’Khasses together.”
“Neither am I,” Hadjar answered, scratching the purring Azrea.
The festival had
ended in the middle of the night and the orcs had gone to sleep. Their ‘snoring’, which sounded more like the squealing of a pig being butchered, had interfered with Hadjar’s meditation.
“I also don’t like that you’re taking these humans with you!” Steppe Fang pointed his clawed finger at the trio of disciples.
Since early morning, Derek, Alea, and Irma had been standing right at the entrance to the orc camp. Their presence made the orcs nervous, so they summoned their Calls and drew their weapons, making the trio just as nervous. The smell of fear had attracted Azrea, who’d wandered over to sit next to Irma. The atmosphere had remained tense until Hadjar had come along.
“Me neither,” Hadjar muttered.
When he’d tried to get rid of the trio, Azrea had whacked him across the back with her tail. When Hadjar had turned to stare at her in disbelief, she’d snarled sharply, as if saying: We’re taking the white-haired one with us! And since it would be impossible to take Irma and leave Alea and Derek behind in Boltoy, they had to take the other two with them as well. They were adults, they could make their own decisions. Hadjar wasn’t their dear friend or parent. He wouldn’t try to tell them what to do. If they wanted to risk their lives, that was their business.
“Meet me on the south side of the camp in an hour,” Steppe Fang growled. “I hope that the Great Spirits delay you somehow, so that I can go alone.”
Hadjar shrugged.
The orc bared his fangs, growled angrily, and went about his business.
“Dishonest runt,” he said before disappearing among the tents.
Hadjar sighed. One of the reasons why he’d agreed to go on this adventure was the opportunity to learn how to use his Call from the orcs. However, the only one who could teach him was Steppe Fang, who still hadn’t forgiven him. Hadjar was certain that he’d refuse to answer his questions or show him any orc ‘Techniques’. Unless using them improperly could end up killing him, of course. Hadjar was sure that he’d show him those kinds of ‘Techniques’ in a heartbeat.
Azrea purred and nudged Hadjar’s shoulder with her snout.
“I’m not nervous,” he replied, scratching her behind one huge ear. “I just don’t understand where this road will lead me.”
“Deep into orc territory,” Derek answered.
Hadjar looked up. The trio moved toward him, holding the reins of their horses, each of which was at the Alpha Stage, which wasn’t bad even by the standards of the Empire’s inner regions.
“I don’t understand why you’re so eager to come with me.” Once again, Hadjar tried to dissuade them from coming along. “You’ll get killed.”
“We left the ‘Red Mule’ school to become stronger.” Alea extended her hand toward Azrea, but then hesitantly pulled it back.
Irma hugged the huge tigress and patted her back.
“Plus, fighting the Dah’Khasses is more dangerous than venturing into Darnassus territory.”
Hadjar didn’t answer. He was trying to forget that he was talking to cultivators from the enemy Empire and instead focus on the fact that he owed them his life.
“Also… their lairs might be full of treasure,” Derek said with a glint of avarice in his eyes.
“Treasure?” Hadjar asked, suddenly interested.
He lacked resources, coin included. Of course, he could buy some things with his School’s Glory points, but not everything he needed. According to Dora, the most rare and valuable things were only sold at closed auctions that took place once a year and offered materials as rare as a Phoenix feather. Contrary to its name, it wasn’t an actual feather, but a stone that had the imprint of one. To many, it would be little more than a pretty trinket, but not to the cultivators who followed the path of the Spirit of Fire. Such a stone would cost them a whopping seven hundred thousand coins! It had been bought by someone from the capital once before, but nobody knew who the buyer had been. Hadjar felt like he had to attend such an auction, but even the invitation cost an unthinkable sum of money — forty thousand coins. To put it simply, Hadjar was a beggar who needed money urgently.
“You don’t know?” Derek was genuinely surprised. “We thought that you’d agreed because of the treasure.”
“By the High Heavens, what treasure are you talking about?” Hadjar exclaimed.
The trio exchanged glances. As far as they knew, the only thing any pirate cared about was profit. They wondered what the orcs could’ve promised Hadjar that was more valuable than treasure.
“Legends say,” Alea jumped into the saddle and patted the neck of her nervous horse, “that when the Dah’Khasses came here from the demon world, they destroyed a small Kingdom, looting all its treasure in the process.”
Hadjar let out a frustrated sigh. Maybe it was a real treasure by the standards of the Lascanian border region, but by the standards of Dahanatan…
“Don’t be like that,” she said, seemingly offended by his reaction. “According to the legends, even the most ordinary citizen of that Kingdom was a Lord. Sadly, the secret behind their path of cultivation was lost.”
Hadjar shuddered.
He couldn’t believe his luck! Of course, legends tended to exaggerate, but he still hoped that he’d be able to get enough resources to participate in the auction. He also had to remember his deal with Helmer, and that he still needed to retrieve the scroll from Darigon, and that there was an elven poison coursing through his veins that would kill him in a few years if he didn’t become a Lord, which was impossible for him because he’d been cut off from external energy long ago.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Hadjar whispered, jumping on Azrea’s back.
The four of them skirted around the orc camp. Once they were on the south side, he saw something that he wished he hadn’t. Steppe Fang, eyes closed, held a small female orc close to him. She was almost half his height, thinner than the other female orcs, and her skin was green instead of red. Her ears were too long, and not a single fang protruded from her mouth. A glaive had been plunged into the ground next to her, and behind it stood a huge, red-eyed wolf in armor, waiting. It also had a saddle on its back.
“Half-breed,” Derek spat.
“What?” Hadjar didn’t understand.
“She’s half orc, half human,” Alea explained.
Hadjar sputtered as he looked at Steppe Fang first, and then at Alea. This world was truly enormous and full of surprises.
Steppe Fang said goodbye to the female orc and mounted the huge wolf.
“I had hoped you wouldn’t come,” he growled and kicked the beast’s sides with his heels. The wolf howled and broke into a run.
Interesting… Hadjar thought, looking at the female orc. Very interesting…
Chapter 560
That morning, same as all the others before it, Hadjar, nibbling on a piece of cured beef, watched Steppe Fang exercise. His training began with some kind of trance. Whispering something, he would sway from side to side to the beat of his heart. Then, straightening up, he’d take out his axes and perform a series of smooth, slow movements. Sometimes, Hadjar felt like he wasn’t watching an orc, but a wolf instead.
Speaking of which, Steppe Fang’s wolf kept to himself. Not because he was a loner, but because Azrea didn’t like him. Being a tiger, she was at the top of the food chain and thus in charge.
“Do you know what your tattoo means?” Alea asked as she sat down next to him.
They were waiting for the horses to finish drinking from the stream that seemed to flow across the entire steppe. The horses always waited for Azrea and the wolf to finish drinking before they would even approach the water.
Hadjar looked at his right hand. The red symbols on it stirred, turning into various animals and other, unknown creatures before returning to their original shape.
Hadjar shook his head. “I don’t know anything about them.”
Steppe Fang was the most knowledgeable on the topic, but he hadn’t said a single word throughout the entire week of travel. Even when they�
�d encountered Lascanian border guards, who’d immediately drawn their weapons and activated their armor, following the simple logic of ‘if you see an orc, you fight the orc’.
Luckily, thanks to the trio and the good reputation of their school throughout the eastern border of Lascan, they’d managed to convince them that the orc was their prisoner and that they were taking him to some distant outpost. And although the orc was armed and had a mount, no one had wanted to argue with the disciples, so they’d let them pass.
The only person Hadjar could discuss his tattoo with was Alea. Unfortunately, she didn’t know much about Names either.
“They used to be more important than they are now,” she’d once told Hadjar. “Don’t ask me why. I don’t know.”
“Come on,” Derek called out, leading the horses toward them. “We have three more days of riding ahead of us before we reach the orc lands.”
“It’s the Dah’Khasses’ land now,” Steppe Fang said, surprising everyone, but then he immediately turned away.
No one asked him to elaborate. The trio was far too scared of him.
“There’s a tavern somewhere down the road,” Derek said. “Merchants visit it sometimes. We can stay there for the night and buy some potions and pills.”
Listening to their conversation, Steppe Fang snorted contemptuously. As Hadjar had already seen firsthand, orc alchemy was superior to that of the humans. However, they had no other choice as Steppe Fang, of course, wasn’t going to share his potions with any of them.
“That’s a good idea,” Hadjar agreed.
For some reason, he’d been appointed the leader of their squad, and no decisions were made without his approval.
The tavern wasn’t far; they came across it after riding westward for about two hours. It was a massive building at the intersection of four roads. The first floor was made of white stone, while the rest were wooden. The yard was enclosed with a high palisade, and the roofs of the outbuildings peeked out from behind it: the warehouse, the stables, and what seemed to be the baths.
Dragon Heart: Land of Demons. LitRPG Wuxia Series: Book 7 Page 11