For a split-second, Jin’tal’s cracked bleeding lips twitched upward. “Mercy.” An underlying taunting tone coated her tongue.
“Troll! I will murder every last Troll in this game, you hear me?!” Moonfyre rose, casting a lunar shadow over Jin’tal’s face. “Fucking die!” He slammed, two-handed with all his might, crushing her frail, senile skull. Blackish-blue blood splattered onto his face, spicy and sour in taste. Disgusting.
And he didn’t stop there, drawing back for a another smash. “Every last Troll is going to suffer.” He went for her jaw, her ribs, her limbs, swinging Moonfyre over and over with all his strength until his Stamina bar was drained once more. Sweat and rainwater ran down his back, his body sticky and humid under the light drizzle.
Only when his hate simmered down to wisps of steam he noticed a tip window had appeared by his now unlocked mana bar.
Tip: You are in the presence of unclaimed slaves. You may do so by touching their brands. If slaves are unclaimed for an extended duration, they gain freedom until claimed.
Tip: As an adventurer, you will also lose ownership of slaves upon death. Upon logging out, your slaves will default to the last order given, or idle. You need to regularly log in to maintain control over your slaves.
Nodding, Rowan dismissed the pop-ups, loosened his body, and checked on Gabrielle, who was now oddly quiet. Had he frightened her?
No, worse. She was unconscious.
Alive, he repeated to himself. She wasn’t going back to that Orc jail any time soon on his watch, but he couldn’t see her debuff. Her party entry was most unhelpful. Her cheerful icon would not to divulge anything regarding her debuffs, smug as hell—like her.
She’s going to be fine.
A grumpy yawn ballooned up his throat as he strode to the dawdling slaves. He jabbed an index finger onto Faenin’s forehead, an intent to claim him projected.
The brand lit up with hues of blood red. An invisible mental thread formed like a freshly spun string of spider’s silk, binding the slave to its new master. Rowan’s will was now overriding Faenin’s. Strenuous resistance pulled at the thread, but Rowan’s stormy weight quelled any uprisings in the work.
Rowan stretched his burned back and arms. “You’ve signed away yourself and your brethren here to save your mate. I am going to hold you to your word, though I’m not giving you a choice. Your first order is to tell me what Jin’tal put in those mushrooms.” Waiting for an answer, he walked toward the next slave, then realized a dumb tidbit. “You may speak, Faenin.” The thread was loosened.
Instantly, Faenin started panting as though he had ran a hundred leagues. “Rowan LeMort. I am in your debt—”
“Save it for later. Just answer, now.”
“I do not know.”
“Are you lying?” Rowan glanced at him with a murderous scowl.
“No, you have my word.”
“So you say. Are any of you able to cure Food Poisoning?”
“No, but we can forage for herbs that may help, though these lands—”
“Then be quiet.”
Not another word left Faenin’s chewed lips.
Rowan touched the forehead of an earthy-haired Sun Elf male, perhaps a young adult. “What did they put in those mushrooms? Can you answer me? What’s your name?”
“Skylar Everbright.”
Skylar Everbright : Sun Elf Slave (Level 14)
Health: 92%
Surprise jolted up Rowan’s neck. “That doesn’t sound like an Elf name.”
“I was once a Human, great Demon. Would you like to hear my story?” There was some sarcasm in that. Good.
“Maybe later. Tell me what they put in those Mushrooms.”
“I don’t know.”
Rowan’s tongue popped. He tapped Faenin’s mate, then immediately loosened her bindings before they completely formed. “Hello, princess. I took a back full of knives for you. It really hurt. You’re welcome. Why don’t you give your mate a hug and a kiss on the cheek? And by that I mean stay where you are and tell me what they put in those mushrooms before I execute someone here—like you. Was the poison lethal?” Of course it was lethal, Rowan added as a thought. Why am I even asking?
Faenin growled like a dog, and his mate gingerly laughed. She said, “My name is Liluth Valthrya, and I do not know.”
“Oh, you don’t take your mate’s last name? No, don’t answer that.” Rowan was already onto the next, a jab to a teenage male with jet black hair. Maybe fifteen or sixteen if he were a Human on Earth. In this world? He could be anywhere from months to decades old with the mind of a squirrel.
The slave bonds took a fair bit longer to weave. Something was possibly different about this one, but Rowan couldn’t care less. “Name? Do you know?”
“Zaine Daedan. I don’t know.” His voice was monotone, and his expression was downtrodden. What an angsty guy.
“Good chat.”
Rowan poked the only other girl of the lot. She was around Skylar’s age, perhaps a couple of years older, and a few inches shorter. Her slave rags low cut and trimmed to her upper thighs. She was attractive. “Let me guess. You’re a special kind of slave to keep these three guys happy and in-check, though it doesn’t seem to be doing much for Zaine.” Rowan smirked.
Indignation flashed across her face but was quickly concealed. “My name is Viola Everbright, and I don’t know what they put in those mushrooms.”
Rowan’s eyebrow arched. “You’re Skylar’s sister?”
“Cousin on his mother’s side.”
“Fascinating. Do you have anything important to tell me?”
“Um, like what?”
He shrugged, walked on, poked the final slave. This adult with sandy hair was taller than Rowan by a couple of inches, and much fitter. His ears were extra long and pointy, which was a funny look combined with his toned muscles. His bindings were loosened but with tentative caution.
After a a brief stare-down, Rowan said, “I’m going to be blunt. If you can’t tell me what was in those mushrooms, Draesear isn’t going to be pleased with you lot.”
“My name is Luthias Elequin.” His voice was confident, commanding. “I was the one who fetched that basket. I was instructed to mix in no poison, and in all honesty, I do not believe they poisoned your wife; however, the Trolls rarely wash their hands after lavatory use. Much of their raw food was tainted. It is most likely not lethal if she hurled most of the—”
And that was everything Rowan needed to know. “Gotcha.” He suppressed a gag reflex. “Thank you, Luthias. I’ll believe you, for now, and I’ll reciprocate your honesty. Listen up, because I’m going to say this once.” Rowan straightened his posture, standing like a great dictator would.
With a cleared throat, he began in an authoritative voice, “I, Rowan LeMort, and my wife, Gabby LeMort, are adventurers from another world. If you are not familiar, our kind are given handy little things called Fates upon entering your world. We can come and go at will, and we always resurrect if we perish here; so don’t try anything dumb. Our shared fates is Demonborn. You can guess what that entails; if you can’t, then you can take an eternal dive in the lake behind me, and you better not—”
That Sleep Deprivation debuff was cranking his grouchiness up to a ten. He paused and took a cool breath. “We have the beginnings of a settlement ten miles in that direction, through a narrow pass, on the shores of a fjord. It’s a great location. Your buddy here, Faenin, has traded your souls on your behalf for the safety of his mate, so, you six will be our workforce. One day you may earn freedom, but for the time being, you will be earning your keep and then some. Any questions?”
“I have a question,” Gabrielle chirped.
With a startle, Rowan spun around and found her cat eyes. Her condition hadn’t deteriorated. In fact, color was returning to her stony-gray cheeks. Or was that the moonlight? He mumbled, “Yeah, what?”
“You’re not really gonna make Viola… do weird things, are ya?” Her words were sharper than the mithr
il dagger.
“No. I was being facetious.”
“Hmmm. Kay, but I’m watching ya.”
His eyes rolled. “Anyone else?” He loosened all their bindings with a mental sweep.
Eyebrow arched, Skylar asked sarcastically, “What are you in your world? Also a Demon?”
“Yes. Anything else?”
“No, Row,” Gabrielle said in her bossy tone, “we are Humans in our World.”
Liluth asked, “Do you have food? I’m am hungry.”
“Same here,” Viola said.
“As am I,” Faenin added quietly.
This wasn’t what Rowan had in mind. “Any important questions?” He waited five seconds. “No? Good. Let’s stop idling.” His fingers clicked as he tightened their bindings. “Skylar, grab and hold onto a bundle of roped loot by the tower. Faenin, you and Liluth go forage for medicinal herbs and any safe food, but stay close. The rest of you search for anything of value at their village, then make camp. A few rooms might still be standing.” He yanked on their threads, making the order final.
They ran off with simultaneous mechanical strides. Zaine’s thread, in particular, was taut with disgruntlement.
“Here?” Gabrielle blurted. “It smells… And we’re sitting ducks.”
“We’re not sleeping or walking through a spider-infested forest at night.”
Her eyes fell. She said in a small voice, “Oh, right. Forgot about those. My head and stomach are upset.”
“How’s the debuff?”
“Major.”
He briefly evaluated a few possible options. He was inclined to safer routes. “Then we should log out for the night and morning. Hopefully it’ll pass by then.”
A sad frown pouted her lips. “What if something happens to my babies?”
He huffed, “They’re not babies. They’re stronger than us.”
“They dun’ respawn.” She pouted harder, attacking him her ridiculous pleading look again, which usually worked.
“Fine. We’ll sleep in-game from now on.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Hopefully we won’t regret this.”
“Yay. You’re the best—” She coughed, but didn’t vomit. A bit better.
“I am a great Demon lord. You can call me King Rowan from now on.”
“Hehehe. We’ll see about that.” She poked his ankle with a hard pinky finger. “And I think ya should be nicer to them.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“I’m serious.”
“I am too. If they try to rebel, they’re getting lashes.”
“Row.”
“Gabby.”
Her tongue clicked, and he sensed this was the start of a long night’s argument. He was ready for it.
16
A hundred leagues south of the Great Northern Plains, the Serenade Canyon River had carved deep gorges into the landscape—a perfect location for the Orc’s capital stronghold, for only they could survive this harsh environment at the equator with their reduced sustenance needs as a race.
Nargol, chief of the Blackwolf Clan, took his seat among his fellow chiefs in the Chamber of Elders, his platemail armor clinking as it magically adjusted to a sitting position. Amber-gem lamps cast diffuse shadows across his deep-set features, giving him a look of illness.
A hooded chief said from the central dais, “What is it that you have to report, Nargol?”
“Omens. Demons have returned. Demons from another world. Adventurers.” Nargol paused for three grizzly breaths. “I tasted their blood—”
The gathering erupted with chatter, some slamming their fists.
“Quiet, quiet!” While the hooded Orc was calling for order, futilely, Nargol sat in utter silence, face blank.
“Preposterous!” an Orc from the far end yelled. “Demons! Adventurer Demons at that! Nargol has lost his mind!”
Another added, “Demons have not walked our plane for a thousand years.”
Yet another: “I said long ago the Blackwolf Clan needs to be culled from our ranks!”
“Nargol, where is your proof?”
“This is not the first time he has spewed nonsense.”
“How does Nargol still live?! All lies!”
The meeting did not quiet for a score of minutes while the chiefs and their warlords reacted with their usual arrogance. Not all, but most. Every clan quarreled with every other clan, and the chiefs wouldn’t hesitate to seize a opportunity to dismember the weakest. It was the way of the Orcs—the strong lived, for that was the way of survival among beasts and dangers of the plains and canyons.
The hooded Orc spoke again, voice raspy, “We will discuss Nargol’s words later. And of the adventurers? Are you certain they have returned?”
“Yes,” Nargol said. “Demon adventurers.”
“Hmm. Anyone else? Sarketh?”
“None at my fortress.”
“Torag?”
“Four at my recent settlement,” Torag said. “The way they spake, the way they stood, the way they treated everything around them with such… uncaring minds was as written in the Sacred Scrolls.”
A chief three seats down the line said, “He speaks truth. Three have appeared in my stronghold.”
The hooded Orc said, “Are they cooperative?”
“They do not consume the meat of our enemies.”
“Most… concerning.”
“Execute them all!” a chief yelled. “They are not to be trusted. All who agree declare your support.”
Fists and axes rose high. Many. A super-majority. “I support!” yelled chiefs in a cascading chorus.
The hooded Orc nodded. “A quick decision for once.” His throat cleared, then he spoke with an echoing ring: “All adventurers that step onto our lands are to be executed on sight.”
“Fools. You fools have doomed us.” Nargol stood, and all heads turned to him as he walked for the door.
“Wait,” the hooded Orc said. “Just one question I demand an answer for.”
“What is the question?”
“What was the fate of these Demons you encountered? You are uninjured, are you not?”
Nagol shook his head. A chill swept his skin where the armor didn’t cover. “I banished them from our lands.”
Their laughter was wild. A chief tossed a half-eaten piece of half-burnt bacon at Nargol’s chest. “He speaks madness! A mere mortal cannot harm a hair on a true Demon!”
“You do not know that.” The doorway gladly accepted Nargol’s boots. “You do not know their kind as do I,” he added in a whisper, then disappeared with a crackling lightning ball.
17
Inside a ten-foot crystal orb, liquid mana painted a spectrum of blues, reds, and greens. Glittering silver took hold of the magic, granting life in the form of moving pictures and sounds in pristine clarity. First a man’s face, then followed by his neck and red tunic. With a metallic pointing stick lazily held, he stood in front of a map of the Grand Southern Alps.
He spoke with a presenter’s voice: “For the weather forecast, our finest Diviners have revealed clear skies over the kingdom for the rest of winter with little chance of elemental outbreaks. Residents of Tyrion Hall, however, are advised to take cover from continued sandstorms. And that’s the Daily Orb. Thank you for divining in, and remember to report all sighting of Orc activity—”
An arm garbed in purple slid into the orb, passing an unfurled scroll to the man. He read with speedy, widening eyes. He chuckled in a kind of awkward though charismatic way. “The news doesn’t simply end tonight: Orcish Elders are now executing all adventurers; the Royal Guard welcomes refugees including those possessing Orc bodies; a special settlement for Orcish adventurers has been set up near Dragontooth Gorge; echoes of dark magic have sensed from Trollheim due south of the Arctic Ring; King Ralston cautions all travelers and traders extra vigilance during these hectic times.
“And last but not least, the Royal Guard requests Rowan and Gabby LeMort to be brought in for questioning
regarding their desertion of the faction. That’s all for the Daily Report. Have a safe, warm night. Winter is nearing.” He waved his pointing stick. He faded from the orb.
The map of the kingdom morphed into a black and white wanted poster. Two familiar faces were looking rather guilty.
Tasha’s jaw was dangling.
Someone said, “Excuse me.”
She nearly dropped her apple pie that hadn’t taken a bite for a while. “Ah… sorry.” Her sandals scuffed loudly on the tavern’s floorboards as she moved out of the way for this older gentleman in a nice purple robe, who rejected eye contact. A grumpy old man for an NPC.
“Adventurers and their problems,” he muttered.
“Hey, I said sorry.”
He didn’t look back as he walked out.
“Whatever,” Tasha mumbled and picked a table in the corner. She chewed a bite of now lukewarm sweet and sour pastry, not quite believing what she had just witnessed. This surely wasn’t happening. Surely, her sister and brother-in-law were not on the evening news in this high fantasy world. How ridiculous.
Someone a few yards into the crowd said, “Questioning for desertion of the faction? Announced on the Daily Report? That’s a load of crap I say.”
“That is a standard excuse they use for something serious,” another answered.
“Well, it’s ridiculous. I wish the King weren’t so secretive.”
“It’s to protect us,” a teenage girl said.
“Hear hear,” an older gentleman in a formal wear said. “Your arrogance is unfounded, boy. We’ve enjoyed peace far too long.”
“Don’t give me that, old crank.”
A man said in an German accent, “Finally some action. I bet it’s a massive raid.”
His friend shrugged. “It’ll probably be gone by the time we get there.” His accent wasn’t as thick. “I hear the Trolls are violent assholes.” He exclaimed something more in German.
A girl said in an Australian accent, “Orcs encountered a couple of adventurers with dark magic. It might be that.”
Wow. Rumors spread quickly here, Tasha thought .
“What?” the first German spat. “Where did you hear that?”
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