Black Flame in the Barren Steppe: Epic LitRPG (Realm of Arkon, Book 8)

by G. Akella

  It had taken two full days and nights for the orc to slice open the punishers paralyzed by Vill's power. There was no faster way to make so many proper sacrifices, but Gurkass was efficient about it. Four incisions in the right places were enough to ensure a slow, painful death. Vill himself stood in the center of the camp, watching, giving the inexperienced orc directions only occasionally. Gurkass’ arms were stained to the elbow in blood, and he walked from one twisted body to the next, covered with green flies buzzing from head to toe and back again. He slashed and he slashed. He was happy. Madness pursued him closely, but he kept it at bay. The only thing that diminished his joy was that the punishers’ eyes betrayed no terror. Anything but. They were filled with contempt, even mirth. Karlash, whom he killed at the slowest pace of all, stared into his eyes with bitterness and condescension. He would not understand their looks for many years.

  Vill absorbed strength from all of them and left, granting his servant an amulet. The idols of the ancestors, who at Vill's advice Gurkass had covered in blood, accepted the offering. Gurkass became a shaman. He knew this when he came back to his senses, standing alone amidst the sea of butchered corpses. Most spirits had no concern for what shade of magic you used, and human sacrifice for them was stronger than that of any bull, as long as you knew how to offer it correctly. His savior had known this, and shared his knowledge with his new servant in such a fashion that even Dhoresh, Lord of the Ether, could not discern the true root of Gurkass’ power. The orc gave the camp to the flames and departed for the mountains, spending nearly a century there before his master found him again, three days before Velial invaded Karn.

  "Hello, old friend," Vill said as he appeared out of thin air only a few yards away, smiling as he took in the ruins of the ancient castle.

  The god had barely changed for fifteen hundred years. His hair was a bit shorter now, and a new small scar ran down his cheek. Plus his mantle was noticeably darker than before.

  "Greetings, master," Gurkass said as he moved to rise, only to be stopped by a gesture from the god.

  Once again, Vill turned a large boulder into his seat, but this time it actually took the form of a chair. He folded his hands and watched his servant with great interest.

  "Well, tell me why the meeting," he said, moving nothing but his lips. “I doubt you would disturb the Astral without good cause.”

  He hasn't changed on the inside, either, the orc thought with a suppressed smile.

  They had last seen each other fifty years prior, for a whole five minutes—enough time for Gurkass to give his master some important news.

  "A shadow creeper told me you and your army are poised along the steppe, preparing to attack the khanate this very week. Rehan knows. His grunts, wolf riders, and cavalry will be there before the day after tomorrow ends. Dhoresh and Kahella will support him. Twelve clan chieftains will assemble their warriors, and I am sure that Duke Richard and King Rayan will also send their legions. No such army has been assembled since the invasion of Velial." Gurkass lifted his head and looked the god straight in the eye. “I know you are stronger than all of them, but I can help you once again. I was helpful in Fertan, you remember.”

  "We'll talk about that in a moment," Vill said with a nod, “but first tell me what else you have heard about me.”

  Gurkass nodded, pulled a reed pipe from his bag, and began to smoke, without haste. He looked up at the god once more and shook his head thoughtfully. An observer would surmise that the shaman was brashly testing the most powerful being in the world. But over the years, they had become accustomed to this manner of speaking, and Vill's face made no move to anger or even annoyance. Only his eyes betrayed that he understood the orc’s game.

  "You know that Duke Richard maintains a military neutrality with the orcs," began Gurkass. “You took the undead from the borders of our lands, and communication has resumed between the Daar Duchy and the khanate. A few days ago, a messenger delivered the news that your last companion was slain in the catacombs of Vaedarr. Nerghall died there, much as Rgharg did in Cathella. I also know that the Mistress of Death has lost her main stronghold, that you have somehow managed to summon and subdue the Fallen Ones, and that Uroh and Laherton were disintegrated in the Astral, with your assistance. I know many things, but one thing still confuses me: why have you still not crushed that demon?”

  With that, the shaman blew out a puff of smoke and looked quizzically at the god.

  After a short pause, Vill gave a calm explanation. "The scales of Providence have not been the same in Arkon ever since the two-lived arrived. It was they who brought the Prophecy that reigns over us all. I long ago learned how to cheat the old laws, but only when it's not directly involved. Such are the rules of the game." Vill at last unfolded his hands and leaned back in his improvised chair. “He is a Dreamer, and that ability allows him to escape danger and perceive some of my actions. It would not surprise me if he learned of this conversation one day. But he cannot stop me. Not anymore.”

  The orc nearly coughed on the smoke from his pipe. "You're talking about a demon. You, who—"

  "You would do best not to underestimate him," Vill said coldly. “Even the gods may yield to the one chosen by Providence itself. He has the ring. He killed Belvert and Urgam. Whether that was by chance or out of vengeance, I do not know. If you must meet him, be careful, but if you can, avoid meeting him at all. I have lost enough servants already, and I will deal with the demon shortly myself! Now, tell me what you wanted to say at the start.”

  Gurkass thought over his lord's words for a long moment, then nodded.

  "Trangh an Hargh, the third son of Kha'an Rehan, undertook an intensive study of alchemy five years ago. Xena an Arhrot—commander of the Spotted Shewolves, and his chosen one—set this condition before him in jest when the matchmakers he'd sent arrived at her door. The best swordsman of the khanate didn't despair; instead, he hired instructors and dove right into the science. And it was all well and good until rumors began to swirl of his involvement in dark magic and subservience to one of the Twice Cursed Gods..."

  Gurkass exhaled a puff of smoke and grinned.

  "It's simple, really. Three gray witches' circles on his land and a dozen corpses, prepared properly. No one believed at the time, but their belief was not required. The perpetrator was never found, and eventually they all stopped talking about it. The elders of the Bloody Spear were the most indignant about the whole affair. I’m afraid you’re not quite that clan’s favorite god, master," the shaman spread his knobby hands and lowered his face in mock mourning.

  The same ironic glimmer flashed across Vill's eyes, and even a tiny smile. He nodded.

  "But that will not stop them from conducting their rites, just as they did before."

  "Right," Gurkass nodded. "The customs of my people have not changed. Orcs still cut each other to pieces, and the outsiders only added more oil to the fire. But let's speak of Trang. Tomorrow at noon, seven orcs of the Bloody Spear, led by Elder Horm, will arrive to discuss the clan’s northern boundaries with Trang. Trang is one of his father’s advisors and handles all matters related to clan and royal land rights. The negotiations will take place in a veranda in the city gardens. There will be no one around but two guards and a few servants."

  Gurkass fell silent as he contemplated, and he smirked at some of his own thoughts.

  Vill raised an eyebrow. "What are you plotting now, you old trickster?"

  "Of those seven, two are uninitiated disavowed," the shaman replied as he slowly pulled his eyes from the distance to settle back on the god's face. “I will be there, as well. We will kill Trangh, and the others. Then I will leave. The head of the consulate, Knugh the Cruel—who is, by the way, blood brother to Gronn an Ghort, the Bloody Spear's chieftain—will find out about this shortly before the others do, so that Rehan’s people will not have enough time to completely erase the traces of black magic. The kha'an's son tried and failed to kill the messengers, perishing himself. I will orchestrate the magi
cal traces. And you will take care of those two.”

  "How do you expect to deal with the khanate's best swordsman?"

  "Shiekata's Shackles," the shaman replied at once. "Mistress may have departed from this world, but I was a great student. The clan's envoys will be destroyed, for Rehan will never forgive the murder of his son. And even if they escape, it will change nothing. The lands of the Blood Spear are bordered by Darkaan, so if you attack, Rehan will have to declare war on the clan in order to face you. No one will be able to prove that you and he were not in collusion."

  Gurkass drew a flask from his bag, took a sip, winced, and nodded to the northwest.

  "So that leaves the king, the duke, and that inscrutable demon, but I cannot help you there."

  The shaman stopped speaking, and silence hung over the ruins, cut only by the chirping of grasshoppers and the cheeping of the small birds of the steppe. Vill froze in his seat, his face still as a mask. That always happened when the orc's master considered the eventualities of the future, eventualities that only the gods and those very close to them could foresee. It was a full seven minutes until he spoke again, during which the shaman managed to finish his pipe, then kept waiting in silence. At last, meaning returned to the god’s eyes as his face twitched.

  "The demon will not be able to stop you," he said dryly. “The humans are unlikely to show up, either—a great surprise will come upon Richard tonight. And as for the rest...” Vill grinned, and then spoke with a new gravity. “I should have taken you on as a companion a long time ago, Gurkass. But it is not too late to do so, after our little war here is over. You have pleased me once more, old friend.”

  "And... and what will become of my people?" the shaman said quietly, lowering his head.

  "Nothing will happen to them," Vill replied as his smile widened. “What shepherd would butcher his whole flock? I need Kahella and Dhoresh, for I never forgive old debts. Of course, it is a pity that Myrt and Ingvar will be unable to take part, but their turn will come. Do your work, old friend, and the heads of Rehan and his sons will soon decorate the walls of the citadel that awaits you.”

  Vill gestured a farewell, then evaporated into thin air. The chair on which he sat shuddered with a thousand cracks and quietly broke apart into pebbles on the pressed grass. The shaman sighed, shrugged, and reached for his pipe again.

  ***

  I opened my eyes and sat up in a flash. Breathing heavily, I held my face in my hands for a couple of minutes, trying to return to my senses. It wasn't working. I stood and turned on the light, started some coffee going, and walked over to the window, pipe in mouth. Night had fallen, but unlike Vaedarr, Venern bore little resemblance to a summer resort town. The street I could see running along the inn just outside my window was empty. Four lonely lanterns rocked in the wind, and I heard the march of the city patrol in the distance. I had slept seven or eight hours, and the party had returned, but they had declined to wake me. Not that they could have woken me up during one of my dreams. It hadn't worked out too well the last time, at least.

  Now I had to figure out what had just happened. And I had to figure it out right now, since I had no doubt my dream had been "live." I grabbed the ashtray from the windowsill and sat at the desk, turned on my monitor, winked at the elfess that appeared on the screen, and leaned back against my chair. At last, I began to smoke. So what was that about? Gurkass was the last of those who had tortured my wife. I had always hated traitors with every fiber of my being, and he would die as soon as I next saw him. The act would cause me no moral difficulties, either. The punishers had come to his camp after his tribe had slain twenty orcs accompanying a caravan, after all. Men and women alike. The kha'an had been in the right, and if someone treated my people as Gurkass' band had treated that caravan, I would have done the same to them. In the old world, many people blamed their wicked actions on their circumstances, but that didn't fly with me. And I could only guess how many orcs and humans had perished thanks to the help the bastard had provided to Vill in Fertan.

  I rose from the desk, collected my coffee, and returned to the window. Strange. This time the Twice Cursed God did not sense me, I considered as I watched a group of soldiers walk by. This time, I wasn't present as a third party, as I had been in the ruined citadel of Celphata. And this was no contrived Hollywood script, where the dark god had to treat his servants with continual derision. Vill had valued Gurkass’ insight as they spoke. But these were not what I needed to consider at the moment. Gurkass, on the eve of battle, had decided to start a quarrel between the kha'an and Karrosh an Ghort’s son, and I simply could not allow that. What could I do, then? Well, I deduced from the shaman’s words that the khanate and the duchy were in communication, which meant they had portals. The chieftain’s son would meet the delegation from the Bloody Spear today at noon, so I had to see the duke in the morning and ask for our party to be sent to Kargalar. Earl Richard would allow it, since he was up to speed on recent events. As far as I knew, he would send messengers not to the borders but straight to the walls of the city. I could wake Kan right now and get the details from him, but I didn’t quite see the point. If I was right, we would have plenty of time. And if I was wrong, well, then at least I could let the knight-commander get some sleep.

  Why the hell was I getting caught up in all of this? What did I care about orcish politics? Well, there were all sorts of reasons. This Gurkass was likely one of the kha'an’s advisors, so I couldn't exactly roll up and kill him outright. What would I say to the kha'an? "He serves Vill, and he's also responsible for your son's death." Or maybe, “He’s to blame for the massacre of your infantry fifteen hundred years ago!” Who would believe that? But if things went according to this orc's plan, I suspected that he would simply disappear. Then I would have to pursue him all across the Gray Frontier and smoke him out of the citadel my twice-cursed nemesis would give to him. And I would rather avoid all that. Moreover, though I didn't give a damn about the quest or about the insignia of the clan chieftain, the legion of soldiers who kept the defeat at Fertan from turning into a total rout were from the Bloody Spear, and that was another reason to intervene.

  And then there was Vill... I did not care whether he was my enemy or not. He was with Cheney, and that was enough. I took a deep breath, stopping my rage from building as I remembered the ex-member of the board of directors. Instead of exploding, I sat back down at the desk. "The last and perhaps the biggest reason is that I know the System has a good reason for all of this," I said quietly, looking at the smiling elfess and pensively scratching my cheek. Was I imagining things, or was she really looking at me like I was a complete idiot? Had I missed something? The battle would happen seven days from now. Vill only needed the Goddess of Will and Lord of the Ether. The kha'an would be at the border by tomorrow, Myrt and Ingvar wouldn’t be there for some reason, and the legions... Wait. Vill had been absolutely convinced that the human legions would not come, because he said this night had some kind of surprise for the Duke Daar. I'm an idiot... That’s tonight! I cursed myself aloud, jumped up from the desk, switched off the monitor, and sped for the exit.

  Chapter 8

  The other party members' rooms, besides Kan’s, were located on the same floor as mine. It took a couple of minutes for the sleepy Vaessa to open the door. She was wearing all of her equipment.

  "Dar, don't you think it’s strange that you keep forcing your way into young women’s rooms at night? Wait, let me guess. We have to get somewhere, and fast."

  I grinned as I knocked on the next door. "Get the knight-commander up, and then head down into the hall. I'll get the rest."

  "Do you really hate Kan so much that you'll make me wake him up two nights in a row?" She smirked at me as she stepped out into the hallway.

  "You can wake the others if you want, and I'll wake your boyfriend."

  "No, I'll do it." She tossed her hair behind her and set off for the third floor.

  In the inn hallway, I quickly told them all about my vision.
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  "So there is some kind of surprise awaiting the duke tonight that will keep the humans from coming to the orcs' aid. Try to figure out what that could be—and how we can stop it."

  I looked around quietly at the yawning party, waiting for answers.

  "Prince, are you really sure this ‘surprise' hasn’t happened yet?" Raena asked. “You can’t be sure that conversation was happening as you witnessed it. In your vision, the sun was still up in the sky, but it was actually nighttime here.”

  "Seems obvious to me," the rogue shrugged when the sorceress finished. "The morts will destroy the statue of Myrt today, and it'll take the king two weeks to send his soldiers to the duchy under attack."

  Bonbon wiped his eyes. "And what made you conclude that? Just because morts probably hate everyone mixing them up with Myrts?"

  "What do you mean?" Kan turned to Donut, ignoring the bald man's quip.

  "You should read the history of this world—" he stopped and sighed. “You can't, I know, but you can take my word for it. Once the statue is destroyed, it will take two weeks to restore the portal connection. According to the commander, only the local duke has a portal to the orcs, and just from the border the army would take a month and a half to clear the distance on foot. That’s what will happen. What we should do, that’s up to you all to decide. That's above my pay grade.”

  "But if the duke sends humans to the orcish lands, then—" Masyanya began, only to be cut short by Donut.

  "It can only be a diplomatic courier," he explained. “Only one person can be sent to the orcish city per day. The humans aren't allowed a permanent presence, at least not yet.”

  Well, no one promised this would be easy. I looked at the doorman, slumbering behind the counter. It was still too early. "I'll have to go to the orcs on my own, assuming the duke has the ability to send someone other than his own. But what do we do now? Run over to the citadel? Or..."