She leaned back, placing her hands on the floor behind her, still staring at the door frame. Gash did not emerge. At last, she rolled her eyes, stood up, worked the kinks from her legs, and strolled over to the doorway that led out into the open air of the mountain. The frigid air wafted in from outside. From her vantage point she could see the two armies and the whole of the battlefield. Unfortunately, because of her elevation, she could not make out which side was winning and which side was losing. That did not stop her from trying. The mass of green, silver, black, and red seemed to ebb and flow as a great body of water far beneath her. She could faintly hear on the wind shouts and the clang of steel on steel. Then she heard another sound. This one was much nearer. And it froze her blood.
“Little Pila.”
Mara felt her heart suddenly thumping against her chest. She fought to keep her body from shaking as she slowly turned to face the interior of the chamber. There, filling the chamber, were the many beings that had claimed the identities of her uncle and the many unknown past warriors of her people. They were no longer ghostly phantasms, but appeared to be as flesh and blood as she. But they were not her kin. They were the Kru-iss. And if they truly were as they seemed, it gave Mara hope. The one wearing the mask of her uncle smiled lovingly. That sparked Mara’s anger and the emotion quickly overtook her fear.
“It is so goo-“
His sentence was cut off by Mara’s foot slamming into his face in a charging jump kick. She felt the crunch of bone beneath her foot and inwardly smiled. They could be hurt. Good.
The moment her anger overtook her fear she had decided she was not going to give these Kru-iss the chance to attack first. She would draw first blood. She knew she could best them. And even if she couldn’t, flesh or not, she would not let them take her without dragging a few of them down with her first.
Her kick followed through and her uncle’s head hit the stone floor with a sickening thunk. Before it hit, she leapt forward, bringing the end of her staff hard into the face of a long-haired woman of whom she passed abreast. Her feet landed and she turned, swung her staff, and ricocheted the end between the heads of two males. So blurring were her movements that the crowd did not even react until the third and fourth beings were crumpling to the ground. Mara suddenly found herself having to parry. But having been emboldened by the fact that she could physically harm these beings, her focus was as it had never been.
She countered her attackers’ blows, placing some of her own in faces, knees, elbows, wrists, throats, and groins, all with more force than she had ever lent her strikes. Her attackers fell like ragdolls before her, their defenses worthless as Mara penetrated them, subverted them wholly, or used their defenses against them.
The constant wave of enemies seemed endless, though she kept up her pace and her skill, dropping them in twos and threes. Her eyes glanced the crowd during one particular spin and she noted that the number filled the chamber. How they could still be so many was beyond her and she was sure by this point she should be stepping over the bodies of those she had already felled. She struck out at another one, the end of her staff sweeping hard into the back of his knee. A spark of recognition flashed through her mind as her vision spun past his face. She spun back, her staff finding the side of the head of one she knew to be the long-haired female she had already struck down. She stopped then, and looked around. Her breath was heavy in her chest and her body was coated with sweat, despite the chill of the mountain air.
The warriors stood in a circle around her, strangely keeping their distance. Many she recognized as having already beaten to the point where they should not be standing. Yet no sign of her strikes lay upon them. The only thing out of place that Mara saw, was that they were all smiling. It seemed to her that it was the result of their delight in her befuddlement. Then her eyes fell upon her uncle. He, too, was smiling. It was a smile that made Mara want to vomit.
“Little Pila,” the false uncle vomit-spoke, “you cannot hope to win.”
“How…” Mara gasped, “…how can you be here? How did you follow me out of your accursed realm?”
She was feeling tired. Her limbs ached and felt weak. Her grip on her staff was loose with sweat.
“You bore us along in your body,” her uncle replied, “until you came here where we are made manifest. Here, we are strong. Here, your will to resist us will be broken. Here, we will make you our own.”
Exhausted, but nonetheless enraged by the words, Mara shouted and swung her staff as hard as she could. The attack, though quick, was sloppy. Her uncle caught the end of her staff and shot his hand forward. Mara felt her hand turn to ice as his fingers melted into her skin. A horrid feeling of violation coursed through her. Her hand released its grip on her staff. She drew back and wretched on the floor.
Her body shook, both with terror and from the residuals of the feeling. Anger too, coursed through her, but this time, the fear won out as her mind began to comprehend the torture that would be hers should these beings overtake her. So panicked was she by that which she faced, she desperately wished that she could call out to her gods to save her. Yet the very proof that those gods were false now stood before her, threatening to pull her into a deep chasm of darkness and death from which she would never return. She had nowhere to run, no one to call upon. She was alone and so very afraid.
Gash, where are you?
XXVIII. Fall
Gash opened his eyes and attempted to take a breath, but found that he could not. For many agonizing seconds, he could not breathe. Fear shot through him as he thought he might suffocate. Then, like the breaking of a dam, air rushed into his lungs and he began coughing. He tasted blood in his mouth. He attempted to move and winced as pain ripped through him. He sat there for several moments, attempting desperately to fight through the pain. He was lying on his back, prone. He knew he could not stay like that. He had to get to his feet.
He managed to roll over, causing more pain to tear through him. Through intense agony, amidst calling upon the Godking for strength, Gash forced his body to move. The pain was relentless. It felt as if every bone in his body had been broken, yet held together. It was truly unbearable and brought unbidden tears to his eyes. It was all the more amazing to him then, that when the pain subsided enough for him to get his wits about him, that he found himself standing upright.
His breath came in deep gasps. He felt as if he had just fought through an army of enemies. The effort it took just to stand had nearly exhausted him. Blinking and wiping away the tears, he looked around and tried to remember what had happened.
He had been in the tower, well, the version in this realm. He had seen Grot…or what he thought was Grot. His mind clouded and he attempted to shake it clear which succeeded in sending more pain stabbing through his head. Had he charged? Yes. He had charged the monster, in a full-out frenzy no less. But…something happened. A hand- no, a claw- a gnarled, mangled claw had emerged from inside the cloak and…
Suddenly the memory came to him and it only served to increase the pain he felt throughout his body. A force had struck him, like a battering ram to his chest. And suddenly, he was airborne, flying backwards with such force and speed that he had plowed through the rear wall of the tower and…then he fell.
Gash looked up, his neck chastising him for the action with a fresh wave of pain. High above him, though not so high as he would have thought, hung lowest portion of the tower. It seemed close enough that he could hit it with a rock if he threw one hard enough. Above it lay a veil of fog so thick, his eyes could not penetrate it. The section hung out of it like the grotesque limb of a corpse that was otherwise shaded from view. Disgusted, Gash turned away and looked around.
The same, thick fog filled the area around him. Through it and on its edges, he could see twisted, charred remains of long-dead trees that had simply refused to collapse. Their naked branches jutted out from their trunks like large spikes bent at sharp angles. They seemed to Gash as pale imitations of real trees, as though an orc had at
tempted to make a tree of his own will and imagination and ended up falling far short of any sense of beauty inherent in the true product. Something in Gash’s mind connected their sight with the state of the souls of his kin that worshipped Grot and he turned his eyes from them in horror.
Beneath his feet was barren rock. Strangely, the rock was warm, almost hot, yet the air around him was frigid. The entire place seemed a twisted mockery of the world he knew with something sinister and terrifying lurking just beneath the surface.
Seeing his axe lying on the ground a few paces away, Gash limped on pain-ridden feet and bent to retrieve it. Managing to pick it up and stand straight again, albeit slowly, he simply stood holding the haft in a one-handed grip, allowing the head of the weapon to remain resting on the ground. He dare not attempt to sheath it, not only for safety’s sake, but simply to avoid the mass of pain that would ravage his body at the attempt. He stood there a moment, attempting to contemplate how he had not been killed in the fall. Then he remembered the prayer he had uttered in his mind just before he charged Grot. He gave a silent prayer of thanks for his preservation and then set about trying to figure out what he was to do next.
If Grot was so powerful as to do what he did, he had no hope of defeating him through mere brute strength. Tactics might help him, but in the end he would still have to find some way to physically take down the monster. And Gash now doubted if that was even possible.
“Yes, half-blood.”
It was the same voice as before, yet the whispering faded into gurgling words laced with a ghastly, high-pitched scream. Gash had a sense of the creature’s direction and turned to see the cloaked figure standing a distance off on the edge of the fog. The mist seemed to curve around him, as though it yielded to his presence.
“You cannot destroy me,” the voice continued to echo around him. Each word seemed to be drawn out, as if to enforce the certainty of Gash’s doom. “You are mere flesh. You think you have won your victory, but you shall pay for it in pain and blood. Your light elf friend shall be slain. The human girl shall be overrun and possessed and shall do my bidding in torture of soul. Your kin shall remain within my claw, Sylrin will be laid waste, and all shall know no end to my cruelty.”
Gash noticed a black, viscous liquid drip from inside the hood. The monster was drooling. Steeling his will, Gash began to take painful steps towards Grot who merely stood silent as he approached. Gash prepared himself for the pain that was about to overtake him. His other hand moved to his axe and both gripped the haft tightly. He was only a few feet from Grot. He was within striking distance. He was about to give a silent prayer for his aim to be true and his strike to kill-
“Gash?”
Gash snapped his head to his left.
Standing there, on the edge of the fog, a frightened and confused look on her face, was Lum.
How could she be here?
“Gash,” she said in a frightened voice, looking around. “Where am I? What is this place?”
Looking to Grot in anger, Gash swung his axe in a high, horizontal swipe. The blade tore through the hood, which seemed to wrap itself around a roughly spherical object hidden beneath its folds. The object and hood rolled to the ground and the remainder of the cloak fell as a crumpling body. Gash then turned and ran over to Lum who now stood visibly shaking, tears having rolled down her cheeks. Gash embraced her and she returned the gesture. He could feel her hair and smell her familiar scent. He was certain it really was her, though how she had come to be in that place he did not know.
“Gash, I’m scared,” Lum said, her voice shaking.
“Do not be afraid,” Gash reassured her. “I am here.”
“Why?” asked Lum in response as Gash looked into her golden eyes. “Why are you here? Why am I here? Why didn’t the Godking take me to be with him? I thought he loved me.”
She was becoming frantic. Gash stroked her hair in an attempt to calm her.
“Do not fear,” he told her. “You are safe.”
Her breathing slowed as she stared at him. She began to calm down. She even began to smile. Gash spoke again.
“We will find a way-“
In an instant the ground beneath Lum gave way and she screamed as she plummeted out of Gash’s reach. Gash reached into the hole after her, but she was beyond his grasp. He watched helplessly as, hands flailing, she fell face up, toward a river of liquid fire far below. Gash quickly stood and, despite the pain in his limbs, swung his axe and struck the ground around the hole. It gave way instantly and widened the hole enough for him to fit through. Forsaking his axe, he dove in after Lum.
Everything went black before him. His mind reeled in confusion. He felt as though he were falling, as though passing into another realm. Where was he? An awareness came to him then of a hot sun overhead and soft dirt beneath his feet. He opened his eyes and once again found himself on the Great Plains in the middle of the orcish camp of his clan. Fires smoldered, letting off plumes of smoke. Some tents lay partially burned. Piles of rubble lay here and there. Bodies were everywhere.
“G’uar.”
H’ruk appeared out of the smoke. His hair was graying, more scars marked his flesh, and the lines on his face were deep with age.
“The battle is won. Come,” he said, and began to lead Gash away.
Gash’s mind was still reeling in confusion. He did not understand why he was there or what had just happened. His mind seemed to be stuck in the present with no recollection of the past. He attempted to shake his mind free of any shackles of a dream-state and come to consciousness. Yet he felt that what he was experiencing was indeed real, though something still pricked at the back of his mind that this was wrong. Nevertheless, he followed the brutish full-orc through the half-destroyed camp. He noticed several cuts on him, fresh and bleeding. A few orcs milled around, moving through the bodies, picking weapons. Gash noticed that some of the bodies were orcish. The rest were human, dressed in the armor of the Knights of the Realm. Again, there was in his mind conflicting thoughts of reality and un-truth.
The two emerged from a particularly thick batch of smoke to see most of his tribe, many whom he did not recognize, standing on either side of them, looking at them with expectant faces. Before them stood three figures bound in shackles and chains akin to what he himself had once been forced to wear. Gash halted as he took the figures in.
Mara. Lum. Lilliandra.
“All our enemies have been slain,” H’ruk announced to the crowd as he walked up to the three. “But these three females we have captured alive.”
Gash looked at each of them in turn. Mara held on her face a look of contempt, Lum, of fear, Lilliandra of exhausted despair. Mara and Lilliandra were bruised and cut. Their clothes were torn and their skin was blotched and smeared with dirt, blood, and filth. Gash wanted to command them to be freed, but he felt paralyzed, as though his body would not respond. Again the same conflict ravaged his mind.
“The two grown ones,” H’ruk continued in the common tongue, “killed many of our warriors, male and female. But our G’uar was too strong, too orc for them. His strength made us to overcome them. Now they are ours to do with as we please. Hail the Bloodaxe!”
“Hail the Bloodaxe!” the crowd repeated.
Mara shook her head, her eyes boring into Gash. It was then that he noticed she looked older as well. Yet Lum had not aged. And why was she there? She was no warrior. She was not even…
He could not finish the thought, the reality still too painful for him to bear, and he felt himself slipping back into confusion. Where was he? Where had he been before this?
“The little one will serve the females,” H’ruk’s rough voice cut a swath through his thoughts. “If she is displeasing, she will be slashed as any un-orc slave.”
No! Gash thought. Yet he could take no action.
“Take the humun female to my tent,” H’ruk continued. “I will use her as I see fit.”
No! Gash raged within himself, screaming at his body to move. H’r
uk walked up to tower over Lilliandra.
“The elf,” he said with ever more disdain, “will be taught the folly of defying our god by-“
“Worthless Don-ga!”
Gash looked over to see Mara jerk her foot upward, launching the broken haft of a polearm into the air. She caught it in her shackled hands and began beating away orc after orc. Gash urged his body to move and aide her, but still it would not respond.
H’ruk said nothing, but calmly walked over to where Mara was fending off several orcs in a dazzling display of prowess. His steps brought him within arm’s reach of her just as her back turned from him. Somehow she had missed his approach. H’ruk took another step and thrust his sword into the middle of Mara’s back, the blade sprouting from the front of her chest as her back arched. Mara’s trembling hands immediately dropped the haft and moved to the blade, as if she could somehow remove it. Just as her fingertips touched it, H’ruk twisted the blade causing a fresh wave of agony to spread across Mara’s features, yet no scream escaped her open throat. He then lifted her off the ground using only his sword, and threw her to the side, causing her to slide off the blade and hit the ground with a gut-wrenching thump.
Gash raged and mentally beat against the walls of his paralysis. H’ruk walked back over to Lilliandra. His body blocked Gash’s view. He stood there a moment, moving his hand in front of him. Then, Gash heard a sickening smack and Lilliandra collapsed into view, H’ruk’s open hand visible just beyond his opposite arm. Lilliandra writhed on the ground, moaning. H’ruk pointed down at her.
“Deny your god!” he shouted.
“Please!” Lilliandra pleaded. Her writhing had ceased and she lay there pleaded through tears flowing from her eyes. “Please stop this! You curse yourselves! Please do this no longer!”
Half-Orc Redemption Page 41