I somehow,somehow, get him through the broken barn door. He collapses, a dead weight on the hay-strewn floor. I cannot lift him. I cannot get him to the loft. I do not even try. Ijust use my last ounce of strength to drag him into the darkest shadow, behind a broken wagon.
He is shaking, his tusks chattering. The fever is violent.
"Hold on," I whisper. I put the fibrous, filthy root in my mouth and I chew. The taste is vile. My entire face puckers, and my stomach heaves, but I keep chewing, my lips and tongue going numb. I chew until it is a bitter, hot pulp.
I lean over him. His face is a mask of pain. I am terrified.
I press my mouth to his. It is not a kiss. It is a desperate, frantic,hotpress of my lips as I force the bitter, life-saving pulp past his tusks.
He does not respond. He just... shudders.
I have done all I can. I am shaking, my body a single, dull ache. The adrenaline, the fear, and the sheer effort of the last hour drain out of me all at once, leaving a hollow, agonizing void. I pull a mound of loose hay over us, hiding us in the shadows, and collapse beside him, my hand clutching the damp, torn fabric of his tunic as the darkness takes me.
13
OTHIC
The blackness is not empty. It is not sleep. It is a cold, churning void. I am fading, a spark of heat in a lightless, freezing ocean.
I am dying.
A new sensation cuts through the cold. A taste. It is vile, acrid, and profoundly bitter, a chemical fire on my tongue. It is not the venom. It is somethingelse, something fighting it. The bitterness is a shock, so real it pulls me from the void.
The blackness swirls, and the bitter taste changes. It is still bitter, but it is familiar. It is the taste of murky ale.
The darkness is no longer a void; it is smoke. I smell it, and under it, the smell of cheap zhisk, spilled ale, and unwashed orcs. I hear a sound… raucous laughter and the rattling of tankards.
A light. Just one. A flickering candle, casting dancing shadows on a surface in front of me. The darkness congeals, taking form. I am sitting. The wood under my hands is real, oaken, scarred. The table groans under my hulking frame.
…
I am in the tavern. The seedy one in Orcland. I am solitary.
I have a flagon in my hand. I drink. The ale is as bitter as the thoughts that haunt me. I am a warrior without a war, and a simmering hatred for the dark elves—a plague on all lands—festers in my gut, urging me toward retribution.
I hear voices through the din, a low growl of conversation. I know these orcs.
Mogor, the seasoned sailor, his face a grim, weather-beaten map. He is speaking in hushed tones. "Tomorrow, we shall be at sea, and it cannot come quick enough," he states. "Then we can shed some elf blood". He is a good orc. He knows the dark elves are cunning and ruthless; he cannot abide their dishonor.
Gruk, the sea captain, is beside him. Fair, but stern. He slams his fist on the table. "By the Mother, you are right". His eyes gleam with his own malice. His, too, is a story of vengeance. The dark elves tore his family, his clan, apart.
Pandar is there, surly, a penchant for violence clear in his eyes. He is itching for a fight, for an escape from a past that haunts him. And Kilkurk, already three flagons deep, a heavy-drinking, bitter soul. He was betrayed by a human mate and now seeks only riches and the pleasure of sending dark elves to the depths.
This is it. This is the moment. My heart begins to race. I drain my ale and rise, the legs of my stool scraping the floor. I approach their table, determination etched on my face.
"Forgive my intrusion," I rumble, "but I could not help overhearing. I have got a bone to pick with those dark elf scum, and I would be honored to join your venture".
Mogor and Gruk exchange a glance. Mogor speaks. "You are welcome aboard, but know this—it will be no pleasure cruise. We sail into the heart of danger".
"Death holds no fear for me," I reply, my voice steady as steel. "I crave a good fight more than I crave life itself".
Gruk nods, impressed by my resolve. "Very well. Together, we will make them rue the day".
We seal the pact. We are more than strangers now; we are brothers in arms, bound by the fires of retribution.
The tavern door slams open, a cold gust of wind tearing through the room. Mogor's brother stands there, flanked by his own crew, his eyes burning with rage.
"Ah, brother," Mogor spits, his voice dripping with disdain.
