Becoming the Orc Chieftain

by E. M. Hardy

  “Yes, Isiah Hunter,” he growled to himself, his muscles filling out nicely as his mind focused once more on the dreams and ambitions that drove him forward in the first place. “I feel that I am quite ready to kick some ass now.”

  Chapter 30

  “Hey there, Orcy McOrcface. Heard from my mom that—”

  “Don’t you guys seriously get tired of using that stupid name? I mean, come on!”

  Eddison ignored Isiah’s tirade with a barely-concealed smirk. “—you had a hard time waking up again. She said your mom wanted to rush you to the hospital, but your dad called in a doctor to check you up instead. What’s up with that?”

  Isiah grumbled something about annoying nicknames and gossiping housewives before turning back to Eddison with his reply. “Yeah. I gave Kurdan a hand with a problem he was having. Seems that I end up conked out for some time after I walk around in his bones. When I eventually woke up though, dad said that the hospital bills after the last two stays were killing his premiums, and that he called on a buddy to do a home appointment instead.”

  Eddison scrunched his eyebrows together, apparently finding something wrong with Isiah’s answer. “Your dad and my dad work in the same department, don’t they?”

  “I think so, yeah,” Isiah replied, wondering what the big deal was as his best friend scowled in confusion.

  “That’s weird. My dad says that the medical coverage he gets from his job is topnotch, that it covers the whole family, and that we don’t have to worry about stuff like that. So how come he’s getting a doctor to pay you a visit instead of just bringing you to the hospital?”

  Isiah shrugged indifferently. “Dunno. Maybe my dad’s plan is different somehow.” He chuckled at the thought, shaking his head. “Probably opted out of some health benefits to get a slightly bigger payout. Besides, the doc seemed competent enough. Listed down all my symptoms, gave me a thorough checkup, took a couple blood samples, and told my dad that he’d check the results out in his clinic’s lab. Maybe my dad is better at collecting favors than planning out healthcare packages?”

  Eddison was just about to say something when the rest of the gang bounded out of class, waving at the two boys. Eddison’s suspicions were forgotten as Abigail closed in on him and punched him on the shoulder—her own little public display of affection with her boyfriend.

  “Hey there, Orcy,” chipped in Hasan with a strangely wide smile on his face while Bernabé leered from behind him. Isiah groaned, thrusting his face into his palms. Olivia laughed as she patted him on the back. “Chin up, Orcy. The more pissed off you are, the more we’ll keep at it.” Isiah wanted to smack that clean, genuine smile off her face.

  “One chance. Just give me one chance to find an equally stupid nickname for you dopes, and you will live to regret the day that you called me Orcy McOrcface.”

  “See?” Bernabé hooted, his fist raised up in triumph. “Even Zeyah’s using it now!”

  Isiah recoiled in disgust as he realized what was going on. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me. I can’t believe—”

  Isiah’s senses kicked into overdrive as a loud explosion went off in the distance, followed by sporadic gunfire. Isiah whipped his head around toward the source, and soon found a black cloud of smoke billowing from the central business district. Another explosion tore through the air, followed by even more gunshots. People were already screaming, running away from whatever was going on.

  “What the hell?” Bernabé blurted out in shock as he stood rooted to the ground, his eyes transfixed upon the explosions. “What the hell is going on!?”

  Isiah was the first to act, pulling at the shoulders of his friends. “Sounds like an attack, like the ones on TV. C’mon guys, let’s get out of here.”

  He turned around, planning to flee like the rest of the people around him, when something strange caught his eye. It was a van moving slowly, almost deliberately, toward the violence. While other vehicles were frantically backing away or pulling over to check what was going on, this grey van with the tinted windows was driving the opposite way. What tipped Isiah off, however, was the calm demeanor of the driver. The dude was looking straight forward, focused on the road ahead of him instead of blending in with the chaos.

  Isiah’s eyes scanned his surroundings, desperately trying to identify an avenue for escape. To his dismay, he and his gang were right in front of the local park. It was the perfect place to just hang around, buy a couple snacks, and waste some time. Unfortunately, it was all open ground. No hard cover to protect them from anything, no alleys to duck into.

  Isiah casually shifted his focus away from the van toward his friends. “Guys, we gotta get out of here. We’re out in the open. C’mon, before we get caught in another attack.” Isiah turned around, bringing his attention back toward the van, when he surprised the driver staring at him.

  A chill ran through his spine as the driver accelerated. Not toward the explosions, not toward the sporadic gunfire, but toward him and his friends.

  “RUN!”

  That was all he could shout before the van screeched to a halt beside him and his friends. He ended his cold bloodlust, causing time to run at normal speed, as he switched over to hot bloodlust. His blood boiled as he willed it into action, jolting his body with raw energy as it coursed through every fiber of his body.

  He pushed off, running toward the van as fast as his legs could carry him while inhaling deep lungfuls of air to fuel the fire raging within him. If he guessed wrong, he was going to look like an absolute madman running like that. If he guessed right though, then he could hopefully lock down the threat before it could hurt those around him.

  He guessed right.

  Just as he was about to reach the van with his blood-enhanced speed, its doors slid open to reveal a handful of masked gunmen wearing bomb vests and holding AK-47’s in their hands. They looked just like they did on TV: the fearsome Golden Sword had come to his hometown; they were intent on spreading the same chaos here… and they were pointing their guns right at him.

  Isiah moved faster than any human should, no question about it. He covered the distance in a matter of seconds, his steps leaving light cracks on the concrete with the amount of force he put into each step. He poured every ounce of his power into his legs, aiming to reach the van and pin the attackers down in close-quarters before they could open fire.

  He was, however, not fast enough.

  Six fully-automatic rifles blazed away. Isiah twisted and turned, avoiding as many bullets as he could, but these gunmen weren’t stupid. They weren’t spraying and praying away with guns on their hips, closing their eyes and shouting gleefully while they emptied their clips. Neither were they rank amateurs that would recoil in shock as they encountered something unexpected coming their way. No, these gunmen aimed carefully down the sights of their rifles and fired in controlled bursts—ensuring that their rounds hit the target rushing toward them at a blur.

  Isiah Hunter was dead by the time he slammed into the ground; his throat, intestines, stomach, lungs, and heart punctured beyond even what his blood magic could repair. More importantly, a single round screamed its way through Isiah’s nose, ruining bone and cartilage as it tore through Isiah’s brain. He didn’t even last long enough to hear Olivia’s scream of terror and Eddison’s roar of anguish as the attackers stepped past his body, pointing their guns at his terrified friends and shouting at them to get inside the van. He wouldn’t hear them confirm amongst one another that they now had the daughter of Senator Winters, along with the son of the traitor Bishr el-Asmar.

  Not that they cared, for they had the entire batch of children with them. The daughter of a senator that wanted to promote tolerance and the son of a traitor who had fled the cause, turning over vital information to the Americans? Their rapes and beheadings would make for wonderful propaganda videos, sparking even more anger and outrage among the hated enemy.

  The Golden Sword would simply melt away after this last attack, le
t the Americans tear themselves apart as they looked for someone to blame. They would make sure to speak very passionately about their faith in those videos, to quote passages from the Quran and to praise Allah in every other sentence. They would do this all while exposing their thick beards, dense eyelashes, prominent noses, and earthy complexions for all to see. They wanted to make sure that the Americans connected these attacks to Islam and to Arabs—give them an easy, simple target to blame. No more tolerance or acceptance, just fear and hatred.

  They would wait until the enemy became angry enough to stop caring about right and wrong, for their rage would inevitably compel them to vent their impotent anger upon an easy collective of people. Create divides—Christians and Muslims, blacks and whites, browns and yellows, liberals and conservatives, believers and non-believers. Give it some more time for the hatred and resentment of the oppressed to build up, and the Golden Sword would have even more recruits to their cause. Money or camaraderie, arms or fellowship, promises of paradise or promises of vengeance—the Swords would supply all that the oppressed needed to rise up against their oppressors.

  All they needed to win this war was hatred, after all, no matter how long it took.

  ***

  “You humans are so fragile, it’s pathetic.”

  Isiah whipped around, looking for the source of the voice. He saw Kurdan standing in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by inky blackness. The orc crossed his arms, a sneer on his face, as he looked down on Isiah. Yet despite that sneer, Isiah could make out an inkling of sadness buried behind the eyes of the orc.

  It was then that Isiah remembered what happened.

  “You have to help me get back!” he cried out. “I need to get back there! They… they’re counting on me!”

  Kurdan shook his head slowly, sadly, as he tightened his crossed arms in frustration. “I’ve tried,” he whispered. “I’ve tried waking your body like I did the last time your consciousness fled. Back then, your body was still whole enough for me to start repairing it. Slowly, one part at a time. As long as your brain is intact or even just injured, I have a foundation to stand on as I begin repairing your body.”

  Isiah’s ghostly shoulders slumped in disappointment as he realized what Kurdan was saying. “Let me guess: those bastards popped me in the head.”

  Kurdan hesitated for a moment before nodding curtly. Isiah sobbed once as he buried his face inside his palms. “Dammit. Not like this. I can take dying, sure, but not like this… not when I’ve failed them.”

  “It doesn’t need to be this way, you know.”

  A third voice echoed in the darkness, causing both Isiah and Kurdan to turn around and face the interloper. Isiah tilted his head, trying to place the strangely familiar man standing before him. The shaggy robe, the oversized hood, the heavily-tattooed arms… that was when it clicked. He was looking at the vendor who had sold him the bone pendant—the same man who had started all this.

  Or it was more proper to say that it was the same god who had started all this.

  Kurdan grunted, defiant as always, even while the scar across his face glowed and bled. Cagros chuckled as he watched Kurdan fight through the pain, though the deity didn’t force Kurdan to submit through force. At least not this time. Cagros the Bloodletter then turned his attention to Isiah, who stared at the god’s unassuming form with unabashed wonder.

  “Isiah Hunter.” Cagros’ booming voice rang throughout the empty void, filling it with his power. Isiah flinched at the force of his voice but refused to back down, his gaze of wonder turning into a grimace of defiance. Cagros smiled, liking what he saw. “Your actions have pleased me. My chosen people, my orcs, are well on their way to joining the ranks of the Greater Races, all because of you and Kurdan. Even in death, you please me. Your headlong charge, without fear or trepidation, would make for a fitting end for any child of mine.”

  Cagros then slid his gaze toward Kurdan with a leer on his face. “Kurdan,” he said, calling the orc’s attention to him.

  “What?” Kurdan barked out, crossing his arms impatiently as he stared down his god. Cagros just chuckled at the orc’s bravado. “You don’t really need Isiah anymore,” replied the deity as he ceased his chuckling and stared gravely into the orc’s eyes. “You are Overchief of the orcish tribes. You have the weapons and slaves you need to ensure your people’s future. You have overcome the curse of frailty upon learning of defect, returned from the brink of despair stronger and more determined than before. You no longer need a weak, pathetic manling whispering nothings into your ear. I could pluck his soul from this void, take him into myself as a thrall for the Eternal Bloodletting. You have all you really need.”

  Isiah shuddered at Cagros’ words—specifically the part about the Eternal Bloodletting—as he realized the Faustian twist to a bargain he had never agreed to in the first place.

  Kurdan, for his part, narrowed his eyes at the deity. “What is it you are getting at, Cagros?”

  The deity frowned, displeased at his interruption. He raised a hand, and Kurdan flinched as he prepared himself for whatever Cagros would force upon him. The deity, however, tilted his head and lowered his hand—apparently changing his mind about dominating Kurdan.

  “Would you be willing to sacrifice half your soul so that this human, Isiah Hunter, would continue living?”

  Kurdan widened his eyes and clamped his mouth shut. He turned toward Isiah, who was just as amazed as the revelation that he could come back to life.

  “Can you do that!?” Isiah blurted out, interrupting Cagros. “Can you bring me back!?” Isiah was suddenly crushed, reeling after an invisible wave of force pressed him down to his knees.

  “I am not talking to you, human,” spat Cagros, his gaze never leaving Kurdan’s eyes. “So? Are you willing?”

  Kurdan stared back at his god for a few moments longer before turning toward Isiah. The young boy was still kneeling, gritting his teeth as he fought to stay upright.

  Kurdan remembered the first time he heard Isiah’s voice rattling around in his mind. He remembered the hatred there, the feeling of violation and vulnerability as the intruder burrowed itself into his head. Then he remembered the first time he sat in Isiah’s mind, taking in the wonders of his world. The sheer number of humans walking about, the tools they had at their disposal, the complementary roles that mesh together to support a massive society, even the weapons they used to kill one another—all these opened his eyes to things he would never have seen if he had remained hidden away inside his forests.

  Then he remembered Isiah’s words the night he fell to despair, when he learned of his defect, and that sealed any remaining doubts he had about his decision.

  “And you’re telling me that something as little, as insignificant, as a broken set of balls is going to put you down!?”

  “Yes,” he said plainly, bluntly, as Isiah’s words echoed within his thoughts. He didn’t ask what it meant to split his soul in half, nor did he care. He knew that he needed Isiah if he wanted not just to hold onto the mantle of Overchief, but to ensure that he could actually do something with it.

  Cagros smiled from underneath his dark hood, his eyes glowing blood red for a split-second before he turned his attention to Isiah.

  “And you, little manling. Weak, pathetic, little manling. Would you be willing to split your soul with Kurdan? Would you do it for these friends that you claim you—”

  “YES!” shouted out Isiah, no longer concerned with the games that Cagros was playing at or caring for whatever bargain Cagros was trying to strike. He didn’t know what would happen, how the whole thing would work out, but he didn’t have the time to dilly-dally with the god. He needed to get back to the land of the living as soon as possible, especially if there was a chance that he could return in time to save his friends.

  “Quick, decisive… and a touch hasty,” chuckled Cagros. “Very well. Let us begin, my favorite little sacks of blood.” He raised a lazy, curled finger to the air be
fore pointing it straight up—and that’s when both Kurdan and Isiah belted out blood-curdling screams. Pain wracked their entire beings, and even the ever-proud Kurdan could not help buckling to his knees as the pain climbed throughout his spiritual body.

  Cagros continued his profane ritual, carving symbols in the air. Steaming-hot blood poured forth from the runes as otherworldly screams began pressing in from everywhere and nowhere. The boy and the orc were reduced to babbling balls of pain writhing on the ground as they curled up into the fetal position.

  Time ceased for the two mortals, locked in the hellish torment of Cagros’ prison as the deity silently, solemnly continued the etching of runes. Each bloody symbol that Cagros carved into the air appeared on both Isiah’s and Kurdan’s bodies, starting from the arms and legs toward the head and abdomen. Soon enough, a litany of profane symbols lined the bodies of the two mortals. The runes bled Cagros’ power as they bent and twisted in every direction, pouring an unspeakable amount of energy all the while.

  Cagros carved the final rune with a flourish, flicking drops of blood from his finger as he did so. The god was sweating now, huffing with divine exertion, as he finished the task he set out to do. Blood trickled from underneath his robe, pooling underneath his shaky legs. Neither Isiah nor Kurdan saw any of this though, for they were still locked in their prisons of torment—too wracked in pain to pay attention to anything else but their own suffering.

  Cagros inhaled deeply, steeling himself for the final part of the merging. He held both hands out, fingers splayed, as he began murmuring a chant in the language that only the gods could fathom. The souls of the two mortals blew apart in a splash of blood and gore, their very beings dissolved into a puddle of blood. Cagros roared out, flinging every ounce of his divine power into the ritual.

  The two puddles merged, mingled with one another, before floating up into the air as a massive gory ball. Cagros steadied himself, winded by the effort, and focused on the final leg of the merging. He inhaled deeply, sucking the darkness of the void into himself, before exhaling in a mighty gust of god-infused wind.