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

by G. Akella

  "Sure, but we're still alive," I said, taking a swig myself and returning the flask to my bag. "And Vill isn't attacking today or even tomorrow."

  "We are alive, and that is good," the orc gave a distracted nod. "Thank you for Trang, prince."

  "I should be thanking him," I chuckled. "By the way, I wanted to ask: why alchemy? I mean, why did you want him to study it so badly?"

  "Trang is a warrior. A mighty warrior. But he also a man," she shrugged. "And the nature of men is such that if something comes easy for you, you don't appreciate it."

  At that, the young woman turned to me with a frown.

  "Don't you repeat that to him!"

  "As if I have a death wish," I grinned, then added. "You have a point, sure. But the more time I spend in this world, the more I realize that women are crazy—both in this world and in the one I came from."

  "What a coincidence, I feel the same way about men," she sniffed, rising to her feet. "And still, I wish for you to have a hard time winning the affection of your women. That would be for the best, I assure you."

  Doesn't get any harder than my wife. I stood up after her.

  Xena dusted off her pants, waved to one of her warriors watching the meadow, and turned back to me.

  "The healer will be here soon, and we won't be able to speak to Trang then. It's time for this lover of airan to get up." She nodded at the razorback.

  "Lover of what?" I asked, bending down and pulling on Gloom's ear.

  "Airan. It's a beverage we make from fermented mare's milk. It's meant for drinking, however, and not bathing. I say this to him and to you."

  Xena gave my armor a skeptical once-over, then glanced at the boar as he was waking, grunted and started toward the house.

  "He's also partial to flour and seaweed."

  I took Gloom's reigns and followed after her. It would take me all day to clean my armor and the boar—or I could just let it dry and fall off on its own. That was one of the things I loved most about Arkon.

  Trang was sitting on an unmade bed with a wooden headboard that resembled an army bunk, gazing meditatively at the entrance. His HP had recovered back to one hundred million. The small room was starkly furnished, with two windows opening onto the city's main street. Four stools, a closed double-leaf wardrobe, a low coffee table holding a wooden tub and bandages, and a tangy medicinal smell. Trang nodded to the girl fixing the bandages on his chest when we entered, lingered on Xena for a long moment, then looked back at me and chuckled.

  "This has been foretold to me when I was a child. Glam the prophet predicted that a stranger would spill blood with me in my home. Blood is sacred to our people, so this makes us blood brothers."

  The orc rose from the bed, stepped up to me, and put his hand on my shoulder.

  You've completed the quest: Saving the Chieftain's Son.

  You have gained a level! Current level: 276.

  You have 1 talent point to allocate.

  Class bonus: +1 to intellect; +1 to spirit.

  You have 3 stat points to allocate.

  You've learned a passive skill: Swordsman.

  You have earned a new title: Warrior of the Great Forest.

  Your reputation has increased. Orcs of the Dragon Skull clan relate to you with reverence.

  "Thank you, brother! May this help you in your uneasy path."

  Trang reeled upon uttering those words, but managed to retain his footing. Beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. Nodding in response to my gratitude, he lowered himself back on the bed, slowly and with difficulty. It was clear how his wounds pained him, but the orc was trying not to let it show.

  "Didn't I say that men were all crazy?" Xena entered the conversation.

  She nodded at the orc female by the bedside.

  "Thanks, Rita. Replace the water in the tub and get back to your squad. I'll be at the citadel in a few hours."

  "The water was just replaced," the woman replied.

  "Then you're free to go. Wait for me at the citadel."

  After her subordinate left, Xena walked over to Trang and looked over his bandages critically. The orc was sitting with his head hanging low, having expended much of his strength. Evidently satisfied with what she saw, the woman pressed on some point in the back of his neck with her finger, then carefully laid his unconscious body on the bed.

  A harsh people indeed. With the orcs, general anesthesia was apparently administered by smacking a wooden mallet over the head. Of course, some orcs might consider that a gentle tickle. The mallet might break more easily than the head. And with lumber being at a deficit in the steppe, wasting wood needlessly just wasn't prudent.

  Done with her examination of the wounded, Xena turned to me.

  "Why are you still standing? Pick a stool, you're next."

  That smile made me a little uneasy. "Uh... You know, I think I'm all right."

  "I'm not going to ask again!" She frowned, gesturing at the stool next to the table.

  I obeyed without any more objections. Xena soaked a rag in the vat, wrung it, and began cleaning the dried blood off my face.

  In the past, players' wounds healed the moment they restored their HP, while scars and caked blood disappeared after twenty four hours. Now, bruises and abrasions could hurt for hours, some scars didn't disappear at all, broken bones might take days to knit, and cuts could bleed as long as they did back on Earth. Were these changes an attempt by the governing AI to heighten the element of immersion or yet another shift in Arkon's transformation from a game to a full-fledged world? I couldn't begin to guess. And though the above instances were more of an exception to the rule, so was my face at its current condition, apparently.

  "I'll stitch you up, but you will most likely have a scar," Xena said with a sigh, as if reading my mind.

  "It's all right," I shrugged. "Scars look good on warriors."

  "Scars are grotesque indicators that the warrior bearing them is a clumsy oaf who can't move their feet or handle their weapon," she said mockingly.

  After spraying some fluid on my cheek, Xena produced a curved needle and thread from her bag, and began to apply stitches.

  "By your logic, Trang is a clumsy oaf, too?"

  "Don't move!" Xena shushed me. "Unless you want me to stitch your ear to your cheek—see how the ladies like that look. And for Trang, if he listened to his father, we wouldn't be having these problems in the first place."

  "What do you mean?"

  "All negotiations with outside officials must be held in the citadel, but Trang is special and above the law... Done! Give it a few hours and the stitches will fade," said said, stepping back and looking over her work with satisfaction.

  At that moment, there was a crash in the hallway. I thanked the young woman, got up and turned toward the entrance, putting my hand on my sword hilt just in case it wasn't the healer.

  A second crash came, then the thump of something falling. Finally, an orc entered the room. He resembled a doctor no more than Saad Khor resembled a village pastor from the world I'd left behind.

  He was nearly seven feet tall, with a cleanly shaven skull, a massive lower jaw and rippling with monstrous muscles. If ever I saw an orc that wouldn't stand out among others of his race in the classic film adaptation of Lord of the Rings, it was this fella. If anything, he'd make most of those orcs look like scrawny dweebs. Rehan, Kha'an of the Great Steppe, had the look and the air of a rearing grizzly, and reminded me of my father-in-law. Though the two looked nothing like, they left a similar first impression.

  The ruler ordered the gorillas that came with him to wait in the hallway, then turned and looked around the room. Stopping his heavy gaze on Trang, he shook his head and drew a disappointed sigh.

  "The finest warrior of the Steppe, eh?"

  I could see the huge relief hiding behind his feigned disappointment. Yet another likeness to my father-in-law and other powerful creatures—they all had a strange manner about them. I wonder if he praised his son even once in his life? On the othe
r hand, fathers like him raised children who didn't need verbal praise. They wouldn't be worthy of their fathers otherwise.

  "Leave us!" he ordered Xena who had her head bowed. Then he looked back at me, nodded, and lowered himself heavily onto one of the stools.

  I tensed up inside, half-expecting the stool to break and the orc to come tumbling down. Phew. I waited for Xena to leave the infirmary, then gave a slight bow of the head.

  "Greetings, Lord of the Steppe."

  "Leave the bombastic titles for noble knights, prince," Rehan cut me off, frowning. "You know exactly who I am, and I heard some things about you. Now sit, I have some questions for you. Also... Thank you for my son."

  Your reputation has increased. Rehan, Kha'an of the Great Steppe, relates to you with respect.

  The ruler's voice boomed, as if blasting through a giant tube. He could be an opera singer with those pipes...

  "I merely distracted Gurkass," I shrugged. "It was Trang who put down the traitor."

  Rehan kept his eyes locked on mine for a long moment, then nodded.

  "I know. I was informed that my adviser was a servant of Vill," he spoke slowly, articulating every word. "He tried to murder my son, but he failed and perished himself. I regret that his death was so quick and painless, though the outcome was a just one nevertheless. But tell me, prince—why did you kill Gronn's warriors?"

  Rehan turned a contemplative gaze at his unconscious son, brow deeply furrowed. It was as if he were using some invisible scales to weigh what happened in the garden of this house today, both as a ruler and as a father.

  "Those two were the disavowed," I said. "I would have done the same even if they were your own people. When I got here, they were cutting up the corpses of their clanmates. And with respect to your son's accusation a year ago, I know for a fact that Gurkass was behind it. Knugh refused to listen and left..."

  "Knugh is a warrior, but sometimes he ought to shut up and listen instead of running his mouth. Too often we fall pray to rage, which blinds us and keeps us from seeing the obvious. Old Horm was his kin, so it figures." The kha'an paused, nodded to his own thoughts, and continued. "The Bloody Spear is gone from Kargalar..."

  "Will there be war?"

  The orc shook his head. "No, this isn't so unusual in the context of history. It happens whenever some chieftain decides to show distrust towards his ruler. Gronn is a wise leader, as was his father. Eventually he'll understand... My emissaries have been recalled from Melitar. It'll be autumn before we can begin negotiations. Gronn has fine warriors in his midst, but the battle on the border shall be fought without them."

  Bloody hell! All this because of some moron! I gritted my teeth, closed my eyes and took deep breaths to relax.

  "Nothing is going to happen without them," I said, quelling my burgeoning rage and trying to keep my voice calm. "The events of last year and the events of today are connected, and intended to produce precisely this result. I suppose that if you step foot on Gronn's lands, he will declare you an enemy, and certain clan chieftains will withdraw? But Vill is going to strike precisely at those spots—to cast suspicion on you and your son, to make it seem like you are his accomplices. I heard the conversation between Gurkass and Vill! The Statue of Myrt was destroyed last night in Vynnern by the Fallen Gods of the Underside, who now serve the Twice Cursed God. Only Duke Richard's legions will turn up in the steppe."

  With each word I spoke, the kha'an's face darkened, his jaw muscles contracting. All orcs were born warriors, but only the finest of them were fit to be rulers. He wasn't afraid—his kind was as fear-proof as sentient creatures could get. The fire in his eyes was already reflecting the blaze of field campfires. His ears were already hearing the screams of the wounded and the furious war cries of his warriors. But he was also thinking... Thinking of who would follow him and who would not. It was all familiar to me—ever since that day in the courtyard of Craedia.

  "What does a god of the Gray Frontier want with the Steppe?" Rehan asked darkly after a pause.

  "The Cursed One doesn't want the Steppe. He wants your head and your gods, kha'an. And he will get what he wants, leaving your land to be drenched in the blood of a fratricidal war. Or..." I pulled out my pipe, considered it thoughtfully, then looked up at him. "Perhaps we can intercept Vill's army in Darkaan?"

  "I would think that you were sent here by the gods, prince, but it's more likely you were sent by demons," the kha'an gave a bitter chuckle. "I haven't heard tidings this dire since the times of the Fertan Battle. But the answer to your question is 'no.' The elemental spirits are far to weak in Darkaan, and the undead would surely crush us."

  "Then I must speak with Gronn an Ghort!"

  "You think you can convince the chieftain of the Bloody Spear? After everything that's happened?"

  I took out the quest amulet from my bag, and held it out to Rehan.

  The orc glanced suspiciously at the item in my palm, then leaned forward abruptly for a closer look. After a long moment, he raised his dumbfounded eyes to meet mine.

  "Indeed, demon, you were sent by the gods!" he spoke hoarsely. "Gronn will hear you out, but for that to happen you're going to have to kill his blood brother."

  The dirty orange disk of the sun touched the edges of the city walls. Dusk was falling leisurely on Kargalar, and the streets were bustling with orcs who had been hiding out from the day's heat. There was no air-conditioning in Arkon, and frost mages were highly uncommon among the orcs, which left them with the traditional method of beating the heat—keeping out of the sun. I wasn't bothered by the heat at all—my body's transformation had greatly expanded the range of temperatures I felt comfortable with. The only downside was I couldn't tan—my skin simply didn't change color. Oh well, I'm tanned enough in my combat form!

  I reigned in Gloom, letting through a wagon laden with fat black barrels. A woman greeted me and I smiled back. The city walls were upon me now, signaling the end of yet another step. Deep in my demonic soul I felt the climax bearing down on me. Quick and inexorable. Another week, maybe two. The locals hoped that the Ancients wouldn't come for another month, but I knew for a fact that such hopes were foolish.

  The orcs were celebrating. The central street had become an enormous shopping strip by evening, and I was met with fanfare and salutations. The residents parted, gesturing at my boar and his coat of caked filth, shouting greetings and waving with frantic jubilation. Reputation was a pleasant perk, no doubt. And I would be rejoicing alongside them if it weren't for this latest quest. My mind kept wandering back to Max and Alyona, and all the people I had left behind in Craedia. Were they all right? I hated the thought that I wouldn't know the answer until the very end. Or maybe never.

  The courtyard, in contrast, was deserted, save for a building crew erecting some kind of squarish structure next to a couple of wagons covered with burlap. According to Rehan, this was the recruitment point for players who wanted to take part in the coming battle. After enlisting, they were sent to a training ground north of the city, and assigned to a cohort at the completion of their expedited training.

  A "she-wolf" was standing near the doorway, leaning against the wall. The same one who had hurled those shurikens at me, then somehow managed to warn her commander in time. I pulled on the reigns, smiled and leaned forward, offering the girl her weapons.

  "Keep it, warrior," she said in a low voice, returning my smile. "As a memento of Sanya the scout. The paths of heroes are hidden from even the gods, so who knows... Perhaps you'll return to Kargalar one day. Show that shuriken to anyone, and they will tell you where to find me."

  Her eyes still locked on mine, the young woman stepped back gracefully to the wall.

  "Deal," I put the weapons away, then touched the sides of the boar with my heels. "If I return, I will look for you."

  Alida's crew was standing guard at the gate, as before. The orcs parted at the sight of me, though their commander raised her palm, gesturing a stop. With a shrug, I pulled on Gloom's reigns.

>   "I never liked demons," the woman proclaimed loudly, looking us up and down. "Both of my grandfathers died in Fertan. But times have changed. Bear no grudge against me, prince. I thank you for Trang, and wish you well on your path."

  I smiled, shook the hand that was offered to me, then rounded the wagons blocking the entrance, and steered my boar south.

  Jaelitte! It was her time now—the rest of the world would wait. But why was she so quiet of late? The silence was really off-putting. Shouldn't she be hurrying me, at least? I could understand her keeping quiet during my conversation with Rehan, but why now? Any question I asked, she ignored. Was she conserving her strength? It was time to find out.

  The work on the vineyards ended closer to evening. As the farmhands headed off to the city, Gloom and I turned toward the farm buildings. Soon we were completely alone, not counting four scarecrows and an old lady sweeping the yard who didn't so much as bother to glance our way. The affairs of nobles were of little interest to the common folk.

  I took a seat on a low cracked bench, lit my pipe, and called Jaelitte once more.

  It was another five minutes until my wife deigned to answer at last. Her voice carried apologetic notes, which kind of freaked me out.

  You're about to complete my soul shell, husband, but that is not enough. It will need to be filled.

  But—

  Be quiet and don't interrupt. This is important. Remember what I told you about your sword? And that the soul catcher is going to be useful to us? The ring will disintegrate, and you're going to need to insert the stone into the pommel of your sword. I will no longer be able to speak to you until you slay a Great Essence, for only the soul of a god can fill the shell. I'm sorry for not telling you this before.

  Interesting... I shook my head. So, I'm supposed to kill one of the gods of this world?

  You yourself have said that the princess is worth dying for, so let's skip the histrionics. You will manage. I believe in my man. Farewell for now. Do what you must, and... Whatever happens, I thank you. This was fun...