Then, before Krell can even aim, Othic unslings his own axe. With a single, fluid motion born of pure rage, he hurls it. The heavy orc axe spins end-over-end, a blur of dark steel, screaming through the air. It smashes into the stone wallbesideKrell, shattering the stone, sending chips flying. Krell shouts, not in triumph, but in terror, diving for cover.
Othic doesn't wait to see if he hit. He lunges for me, his wounded arm already hanging useless. He grabs my arm. "Run!"
He's bleeding. Gods, he's bleeding. A dark, thick stream is running down his chest, soaking his tunic, dripping from his fingers. But he doesn't slow. He's dragging me again, his strength undiminished, fueled by an adrenaline I can't even comprehend.
I can smell his blood. It's coppery and hot, thick in the air.
We're at the gate. The guards, seeing a seven-foot, bleeding orc charge them, have formed a pathetic, shaking spear-wall. "Halt! Halt in the name of Lord Privis!"
Othic doesn't even look at them. He's bleeding. He's slowing down. He's lost his axe. He can't fight them all.
Behind us, Krell is screaming from the wall, "He's wounded! Take him! Take the beast!"
Othic stumbles, his bad shoulder causing him to weave. He leans on me, just for a second, his weight almost crushing me, and I feel the hot, wet soak of his blood against my side.He's dying. He's dying for me.The guilt is a physical sickness, choking me, but there is no time for it.
He's trapped between the spears in front and Krell's men behind. He shoves me forward, toward the guards, toward the bottleneck. He's unarmed, bleeding, but he is still a wall between me and the army chasing us.
9
OTHIC
My axe. It is gone.
The realization hits me with a cold, sickening finality. It is lying twenty yards back in the mud, a useless chunk of steel, thrown in a moment of poisoned rage.
Now, I am unarmed.
The world starts to blur at the edges. A high, thin whine starts in my ears, drowning the distant shouts. The numiscuvenom is no longer a creeping warmth; it is a cold, biting fire in my veins, spreading from my shoulder, turning my limbs to lead. My left arm is a thousand-pound slab of dead meat hanging at my side. I am bleeding.
Gods, I am bleeding. The hot, coppery smell of my own blood is thick in my nostrils, a rank, animal scent that only seems to excite the hunters behind me. I shove Aurora forward, toward the North Gate, my good hand flat on her back.
"Run," I grunt, but the word comes out as a wet rasp.
She stumbles, looking back at me, her eyes wide with terror as she sees the dark, gushing wound. "Othic, you are..."
"Run!" I roar, shoving her again, forcing her toward the gate.
I am failing. I am failing her. We are trapped.
In front of us, the Eelry city guards have finally organized, forming a shaking, pathetic wall of spears at the gate's bottleneck. Behind me, I hear Krell hit the ground, his boots splashing in the mud. He is screaming orders, his voice a triumphant shriek that cuts through the whine in my ears.
"He is wounded! He is unarmed! Box him in!"
Krell is right. I am trapped. Spears in front, mercenaries behind. And I am a one-armed, bleeding beast, my strength fading with every heartbeat. The zhisk and stew I ate in the barracks churn in my gut, threatening to rise. I am a cornered animal, and I am dying.
I turn, putting my back to the spear-wall, facing Krell. He advances, flanked by two of his men, his elven blade gleaming in the torchlight. The light itself splinters, the flames blurring into watery stars.
"It is over, Tusk," Krell snarls, his face a joyful mask of triumph. He is enjoying this. "You should have stayed a pet. You were a fool to think you could own one of the Master's toys."
He is right. I have been a fool. I should have killed Krell in the hall.
No. Not yet.
My beast, the primal Iron Tusk warrior I have suppressed for so long, roars in my skull. It is cornered. Wounded. It is at its most dangerous. I will not die here. I will not let Krell take her.
"Take him!" Krell barks.
The two mercenaries lunge. They are fast, but they are stupid. They see a wounded orc; they see an easy kill. They do not see the beast.
