by E. M. Hardy
Isiah kept retreating, dodging this way and that as Gnadug roared in frustration. The big orc was so absorbed in his attack, so relentless in his assault, that Isiah could do nothing more than dodge away. The other orcs began to mutter to themselves, disgusted by their chieftain’s cowardly display in the face of Gnadug’s pure rage. Some even had the audacity to grunt in disapproval, with one of the orcs calling out Kurdan for his cowardice. Isiah recognized the cat-caller, who of course turned out to be Urgan. He was instigating the other orcs to turn on their chief, and Isiah realized that he had to do more than just duck.
“Fall into your own bloodlust,” a voice whispered in Isiah’s mind. Isiah sagged in relief as he recognized Kurdan, who seemed to have awoken sometime in the middle of his fight with Gnadug.
“How?” thought Isiah, evading another attempted grab while retaliating with an ineffectual jab to the ribs.
“Focus on your twin hearts,” replied Kurdan. “Bring out all the anger you can muster through them. Pain, hatred, envy, desire, frustration—draw upon any emotion you can to evoke anger.”
Isiah didn’t argue. He just tried, but it didn’t work. He ended up pulling nothing but fear for the mass of rage that launched itself relentlessly at him. It was during this loss of focus that Isiah slowed down a beat, stepping in wider than he planned to. This caused him to recover a fraction of a second slower than he should have.
It was enough for Gnadug.
The big orc grabbed Isiah’s forearm and yanked with all the crazed strength he could. Distracted and caught by surprise, Isiah couldn’t fight the momentum of Gnadug’s pull. He pitched forward and received a knee to the gut as a result. Gnadug wasted no time and blew a savage punch to the side of his opponent’s face before following it up with a punch on the other side of the face. Now that he was deep in the throes of bloodlust, he cared nothing more than to simply demolish his enemy in the most brutal way possible.
Isiah ended up dazed and confused by the blows, which gave Gnadug even more time to continue his demolition. He brought a savage kick with the tip of his toes into Kurdan’s stomach, causing him to fall flat on his back. Gnadug heaved with exertion as he spat a glob of blood to the side. He was so focused on humiliating Kurdan that he did not even bother fixing his own injuries. He wanted nothing more than to pummel his opponent into a bloody pulp, and he would waste no time delivering justice to Kurdan for humiliating him so—even if it meant ignoring the bleeding in his lungs and throat.
As Gnadug turned away to spit, confident in his victory, Isiah took the opportunity to roll to the side. Isiah kicked himself up and launched himself straight toward Gnadug as the orc prepared to hock up the phlegm and blood spilling from his lungs and into his throat. While Gnadug inhaled deep to collect the air that would propel his bloody sputum, Isiah gathered all the orcish energy he could muster from the muscles in his abdomen. While Gnadug opened his mouth to release the pressurized spit, Isiah forced that energy to travel up from the abdomen into the muscles of his arms. The moment that Gnadug turned his attention back to his opponent, Isiah had already punched forward and connected a heavy fist with the side of Gnadug’s abdomen.
Gnadug could only grunt in surprise as his opponent moved in a blur of motion so fast he could barely register what was going on. His surprise deepened as he found himself unable to stand upright, his abdomen suddenly unable to hold the weight of his body upright. His rage suddenly deflated as his once-endless strength drained away into nothingness.
Isiah wasn’t done though. The threat before him still existed, so he punched again with as much speed and power as before. He didn’t bother dancing away this time. No dodging or escaping. He just stepped in and rained blow after blow into the different weak points that he could remember—kidney, throat, sternum, solar plexus, temples, eyes. Isiah didn’t even notice himself roaring and raging as he gave in to his own desperate bloodlust.
Kurdan remained silent as he witnessed Isiah bring down the bigger orc into the ground. Orcish flesh and bone should not buckle so easily, and yet Isiah was doing just that with nothing more than his fists. The human boy tapped into Kurdan’s well of rage so thoroughly, so completely, that Gnadug ended up crumpled on the ground and unable to retaliate at all.. The orcs witnessing the challenge went silent as well, watching in quiet horror as their chieftain moved with strength and speed they had never seen before. Worse still was how Gnadug’s blood seemed to flow into their chieftain’s body. Each blood spatter crawled along the ground toward Kurdan before making their way up his leg and into his body. Their chieftain seemed to move faster and strike with even more power as each drop of blood made it into his body.
Isiah roared in fury as he straddled Gnadug, raining down blow after blow on his face, thinking of nothing else but the need to end the threat before him. He never stopped, letting his raging fury carry over with him even as he woke up in an unfamiliar place.
Bright white lights blinded him while four bruised men held him down on the gurney, struggling to keep him pinned in place. He twisted to the side, breaking one arm free and using it to lash out. He caught one of the men in the nose, who cursed out and clutched his bloody nose as another man replaced him, grim determination set on his face as he brought a needle down into Isiah’s arm. Isiah just growled as he swatted the syringe away, his rage instructing the blood in his body to push away the vile poison that would leave him weak and vulnerable. The men stared in disbelief as he continued fighting against their grip, unable to comprehend why the tranquilizer wasn’t working.
“Isiah!” screamed a familiar voice—one that Isiah recognized but couldn’t quite place. “Honey, please! It’s okay! Stop fighting them! They’re just trying to help”
Isiah shot his face to the side, trying to identify the owner of the voice. It took a moment, but he recognized the features of the pale woman and the equally pale man standing beside her.
“Mom? Dad? What…”
The moment he stopped fighting was the moment his bloodlust subsided. And with it went his control over his blood, which allowed the tranquilizer to flow freely within his system. His eyes crossed, and he fell back unto the gurney as he succumbed to the sleep that the anesthetic promised.
***
“Yo, Zeyah. We heard from your mom and dad. You sure you’re okay? You’re not going to, I dunno, go all crazy on us now, are you?”
Isiah puffed out in disgust as he leaned back in his hospital bed, bored out of his wits. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, waving dismissively at Abigail and the rest of the gang as they streamed into his room. “You get one bad nightmare and everyone thinks you’re mental on them. I mean, come on,” he said in exasperation, pointing to the IV drips inserted into his arm. “My dad thinks I was hopped up on drugs last night. Doesn’t matter that the nurses came back with negative results for anything they have on record. He doesn’t even give me enough money to grab anything more than fries and a soda, and he thinks I have the kind of dough to throw around on that stuff!?”
Before Isiah could continue his rant, Bernabé came up and flicked him on the forehead with a finger. “Hey! What was that for?”
“Nothing.” Bernabé grinned as he studied Isiah’s face. “Thought maybe I could trigger you to go Hulk or something. Getting mad yet?”
“Yeah, I’m getting mad alright,” replied Isiah, a grin forming on his face as well. “Mad that you dopes are disrupting my rest. Didn’t you know that the doc prescribed some peace and harmony to deal with my anger issues?”
“It’s not funny, Isiah Hunter,” replied his mother in a terse tone as she entered the room. “You should have been there when he had this attack of his,” she said, addressing Isiah’s friends. “He was shaking and mumbling in his sleep, totally unresponsive to anything that we did. He only got worse when we called in an ambulance, and he started screaming and lashing out as they took him on board. It took five people to restrain him. Stop laughing, young man! I had to apologize profusely to the poor man
whose nose you broke!”
Isiah couldn’t prevent the laughter from escaping his throat. He knew that he should feel ashamed, even afraid of what his mom would do to him when they got back home. And yet he found the whole thing humorous. His giggles subsided soon enough. “Sorry mom,” he said as the last of the giggles died out. “It’s just I can’t imagine myself doing much to the big guys that seem to give me the stink eye whenever they come around to check up on me. I mean, come on… it’s me we’re talking about here.”
Bernabé chuckled nervously. Hasan slowly turned his head around to look outside the window. Abigail and Olivia shared a look that said they didn’t believe him. Eddison crossed his arms and chortled ironically. Isiah’s mother, however, simply sighed and shook her head in resignation.
Chapter 10
Kurdan grimaced as he watched Urul work Gnadug’s blood, coaxing the clotted blood out of the unconscious orc’s body. He was surprised that Gnadug had managed to survive the pummeling that he—or rather, Isiah—had inflicted upon him. Kurdan was sure that Isiah had finished him off. And yet here he was—alive and fighting to stay that way. The big orc’s constitution honestly surprised him, despite his sorry state at the moment. Nonetheless, Urul the Bloodletter shaman was having a hard time dealing with the damage in front of him. Sweat dripped from the tall orc’s face, arms, and chest as he focused on the monumental task before him.
The whole episode with Isiah frightened Kurdan more than he wanted to admit. The power that the young boy had been able to draw out of Kurdan’s body, the way he had pulled blood toward himself… it was nothing he had ever seen before.
“Hey,” Isiah thought softly within Kurdan’s mind. “If it’s any consolation, I have no idea what happened myself. I basically went on autopilot the whole time.”
Kurdan didn’t even bother asking Isiah what autopilot meant. It was another of the human words Isiah injected into his thoughts, and those were best left ignored if they weren’t important enough to waste time on. He just exhaled loudly, wondering just how he would deal with the dilemma before him.
“You could have at least killed him,” replied Kurdan within his mind. “It would have made everything so much simpler for me.”
Isiah said nothing in return, fully aware of Kurdan’s conflicted thoughts. Kurdan knew that he really wasn’t blaming Isiah for his predicament. No, the easy answer would have been for Kurdan himself to finish off Gnadug. It was his right as the victor, and the tribe would not dare speak out against such a decision. It would be one problem solved, cleanly and without any further complications.
And yet he could not help but turn his thoughts over to Isiah’s friends—the humans that the boy frequently accompanied. Gnadug was one of the closest things Kurdan could consider a ‘friend.’ He couldn’t even bring himself to hate the orc, even after they had nearly killed one another. Gnadug’s decision to challenge him wasn’t brought about by malice or a desire to usurp his authority. He even gave Kurdan the opportunity to back down from his decision, willing to subject himself to whatever punishment awaited him. Humiliation is something no orc takes lightly, which only increased Kurdan’s respect for Gnadug.
This was why he stood behind Urul right now, waiting for his orcs to bring him what he needed.
“Chieftain,” uttered a low voice from outside the tent. “We have brought the slaves you requested.”
Kurdan turned around, and he saw the two human priests bound and escorted by two orcs that towered above them. The blind she-priest kept her face turned low, while the he-priest glared angrily at him.
Kurdan drew his dagger as he approached them. The he-priest stepped back, his defiance replaced by an expression of fear. The she-priest, however, stood her ground and did not take one step back despite Kurdan’s apparent aggression.
He sliced once, twice, and watched as the rope bindings of the two priests fell to the ground.
“Go,” he said, addressing the two orcs. “Leave us.” Their eyes widened when Kurdan undid the bindings of the two priests, but they did not do anything else but obey their chieftain’s instructions. They simply nodded, turned around, and stepped back outside the tent.
Urul grunted and grimaced, unpleased by his chieftain’s actions. He said nothing though, unwilling to challenge Kurdan’s decisions. He instead turned his attention to the last orc that did so and ended up in the cot receiving Urul’s ministrations.
“You two,” rumbled Kurdan. “Has your deity given you the power to heal?”
“Yes,” whispered the she-priest, “Galena allows us to do this.”
“Alyon!” hissed the he-priest, “Don’t!” The she-priest said nothing in reply, only bowing her head in submission.
Kurdan swiveled his head slowly, bearing his gaze upon the defiant he-priest. “You,” he rumbled once more. “What is your name?”
Realizing his precarious position, the he-priest gulped and slumped before copying Alyon’s submissive posture. “Bartholomew,” he said with head bowed low and shame tinting his voice.
“Bartholomew. Alyon.” The words rolled off with some difficulty, Kurdan’s tongue unused to the sounds. “Heal this orc,” he said, jerking his head to point toward the unconscious and heavily-injured Gnadug.
Alyon nodded and moved forward, but a long and heavily-muscled arm barred her way.
“Chieftain,” said Urul in barely-restrained frustration. “I do not trust these slaves to do the work that needs to be done. For all we know, they could very well kill Gnadug.” He pushed the she-priest back, causing her to take an unsteady step backward.
“We will do no such thing!” protested Bartholomew, who snapped his head up in anger as he glared at the Bloodletter shaman. “We are not like you savages that—urk!”
The he-priest said nothing more as Kurdan gripped him by the neck, lifting him off his feet. The man struggled feebly against Kurdan’s ironclad grip. He pushed his fingers down deep enough to make breathing difficult, but not hard enough to snap the man’s neck into a twisted, mangled mess.
“Slave,” warned Kurdan in a low voice. “I will suffer no more of these outbursts. Am I understood?” Bartholomew could only choke in reply, desperately clawing at the meaty fingers wrapped around his windpipe. Kurdan grunted once and loosened his grip just enough for the he-priest’s purple face to turn back to normal. “Am. I. Understood?”
Bartholomew nodded vigorously, and Kurdan promptly dropped him to the ground where he gasped desperately for air.
Alyon approached Bartholomew, touching a finger to his bruised neck. A dull light glowed from her finger, and the violent red lines on the he-priest’s neck subsided as the light seeped into his flesh. “Please rest easy, chieftain,” whispered Alyon as she turned away from Bartholomew’s injury. She faced Kurdan and got on her knees and touched her head to the ground, bowing low in submission. “Galena has called us to do no harm, and—”
Kurdan frowned in disgust as he cut her off. “Get up,” he said sharply. “Save your excuses for when you have failed and I squeeze the life out of your bodies. I will not tolerate groveling as much as I will not tolerate defiance. Heal this orc and be done with it.”
To her credit, the she-priest stood up wordlessly and moved closer to the unconscious figure of Gnadug. It was at that moment that Kurdan realized the she-priest was not as blind as she appeared to be. She picked out Gnadug’s direction on the first try and was even able to stop right beside Urul. Kurdan noted this information as he crossed his arms and watched.
Urul turned to his chieftain, pleading with his eyes for the chieftain to change his mind. Kurdan did not, choosing instead to frown at the shaman. “Fine,” Urul sighed in resignation. “You, she-priest, come closer. I have already coaxed Gnadug’s blood to carry away as much of the dead blood and flesh as I can. I’ve also set a few of the bones that our powerful chieftain here managed to break, but the bonds are still weak. This is the limits of what I can do. Gnadug must do the rest on his own sinc
e it is his body, but he obviously can’t do that because he’s unconscious. So,” he sniffed, clearly repulsed by the idea of talking to a human slave as if she were his equal, “You do whatever your weak goddess has given you leave to do.”
“I will do my best,” replied Alyon in a neutral, unoffended tone. “Bartholomew, if you could please aid me?”
The humbled priest only bit his lip, thought twice about what he was doing, and grimaced as he stepped in beside Alyon. “Where do you need me?” he inquired.
Alyon felt Gnadug’s body, starting from his head moving down to his abdomen. “Here,” she said as her hands touched Gnadug’s ruined chest. “Lay your hands on his ribs and the lungs underneath. The second heart as well,” she added as she probed deeper. “I will channel Galena’s grace into his brain.”
Bartholomew fought a grimace, hesitating once before laying his palms flat on Gnadug’s torso. In the meantime, Alyon gently cupped Gnadug’s head, with so much tenderness as if she were cradling a young infant’s head. “Let us begin.”
Alyon hummed gently, a soft lullaby that floated all around the inside of the hut. Her tones played up and down, tinkling like bells as she hummed her goddess’ hymn. Bartholomew soon joined in with a deeper, throatier hum of his own. Instead of throwing off the rhythm, his deep bass harmonized with Alyon’s higher tones. Soon enough, gentle light started collecting on the hands of both priests. The light coalesced in their palms, building up into a mighty glow before spreading out into Gnadug’s injured body.
The big orc convulsed once, twice, then sighed deeply and contently. The light darkened at spots, signaling the extent of Gnadug’s injury. Both Alyon and Bartholomew raised their hymns as these dark spots came up, though Alyon was apparently dealing with more than her fair share of injuries. Yes, Isiah’s barrage on Gnadug’s head had indeed left lasting damage, as evidenced by the beads of sweat that began dripping from Alyon’s creased forehead.
