by K L Reinhart
Ixcht!” Terak took a step back into the shadows, praying that Hok and the others were too caught up in their humiliation to hear the sound of a dozen humans running.
Unfortunately for Terak and the last servants of the Palace of Araxia, an orc’s hearing was almost as good as an elf’s, but their sense of smell was far, far better . . .
“What’s that!?” Hok’s small, bald, and gray-skinned head suddenly swiveled as he started sniffing the air in the direction of the fleeing humans, ravenously.
Ixcht. Ixcht. Ixcht! Terak was thinking desperately.
“What you got, Hok?” said Wekun, sounding annoyed after his recent loss of face.
“Humans. Lots of them . . .” Terak heard Hok say and knew that he had to do something.
“HEY!” Terak stepped out of the dark and threw the borrowed guardsman’s dagger with all the strength he had, sending it turning blade over hilt until it slammed into the forehead of Hok.
“Urkle?” Hok slowly turned to look at Wekun with the blade embedded halfway to the hilt just above his eyes. Hok the Boisterous took a step toward Terak and even managed to raise his heavy-bladed orc sword before he collapsed to the cobbles with a surprised grunt.
“Get him!” Wekun roared, and Terak ran.
16
The Battle for Araxia, Part 2
The stone walls of the warehouses flashed past on either side of Terak as he ran into the city of Araxia, pursued by the loping, long-striding warband of Wekun.
Away from the Old Clock Tower! Terak thought in alarm.
A grunt and a sudden flicker in the night, then a shower of sparks against the right-hand side wall as one of the orcs threw a knife that missed the elf—but it was close.
There. The edge of the warehouses ended in another wide lane, skirted by an iron railing. If I turn right, I’ll be heading parallel to the Clock Tower.
Terak skidded, kicking off in his new direction as he turned—
Thump! For something heavy to hit his feet and send him tumbling across the lane and into the railings on the other side of the street.
“Ach!” Terak hissed in pain, pushing himself over to see that a thick band of rope attached to heavy iron ingots was wrapped around one of his ankles. A bolas, used by the orcs to hunt their prey.
Ixcht! He tore at the rope with his hands—luckily it hadn’t knotted, only looped—and he was lucky he hadn’t broken his ankle as he fell . . .
“Grargh!” The orcs were halfway down the alley between the warehouses now as Terak freed himself. He had a heartbeat second to see one of the unnamed, healthier orcs draw back his hand to throw another knife.
Terak rolled as the railings behind his head clattered with the blade-strike. It had been too close. They had been too close. But now the elf was up and running again, down the lane between railings and warehouses. On the other side of the railings looked to be a small park, edged with drooping-leaved trees.
Making a split-second decision as the orcs rounded the lane thirty feet or less behind him, Terak jumped. He slapped one hand on the haft of a railing and vaulted over the side in a wild somersault, to land on the short-cropped grass of the other side. The ground was softer and welcomed his feet as they thumped home, and Terak pushed off to run between the trees. He could run faster over the softer ground than he could on the hard stone, and there were more shadows and dark places to hide . . .
But with a chorus of grunts and snarls, Terak heard the heavy feet hitting dirt behind him. Wekun’s guttural voice roared:
“Akar! Morthog! Along the railings!” The warband leader was quick-witted. Terak cursed. Instead of the entire warband leaping into the park after their would-be assassin, he had split his forces in two, with two orcs racing along the lane to Terak’s right, while Wekun and one other chased Terak through the park.
No! They were going to cut him off, Terak thought as he skidded around the bowl of an aging tree and tore off in a zig-zag direction. He needed to cross back over the railings on his right if he was to get to the Clock Tower and ring the old bells to warn what doomed citizens remained in Araxia.
But with the cold calculation of the Path of Pain, Terak at least realized that there were now only two orcs in the lane he had to deal with. Two was better than four, even if two were still more than a match for him—
“Rargh!” A sudden bellow and the tree that Terak had just left behind shuddered and cracked as Wekun slammed into it with one shoulder. He must have leapt a good four meters! Terak’s alarm put speed into his racing feet. He hadn’t known orcs were that athletic . . .
On Terak’s left was a narrow green sward that ran down to a brick-edged stream, what might be a pleasant walk in the city in daytime but was now another obstacle in the dark.
And the obstacle was made worse by the fact that there was the sound of growling and raucous voices from the opposite patch of green. Other orcs had apparently decided to investigate this place.
Give me a break! Terak snarled as a trio of lumbering forms emerged from the far trees on the opposite side of the park, swaying a little as if drunk—and seeing the elf racing through the park.
“Pointy-ears!” One of the new orcs bellowed in glee, raising an ax to signal to his fellows.
“Elf-hunt!” Another of the newer orcs shouted. This one had an ugly-looking short bow which it was raising to take aim at Terak,
“Mine!” roared the warband chief Wekun as he rounded the tree behind Terak. Whatever the rules for orcish hunting were, this new warband didn’t seem to pay Wekun’s claim any heed as Terak saw the orc pull back the arrow in one fast, swift movement.
Ixcht! Terak jumped, one hand seizing a drooping branch overhead and using it to swing himself around in a flying arc-
Smack! As an arrow thudded into the trunk of the tree underneath him.
But something was clicking inside of Terak’s body and mind—a set of instincts borne from his blood and sinew and only enhanced by his Enclave training.
Terak was still an elf, after all.
He allowed his momentum to carry him upward before he released his hold on the whip-like branch, somersaulting in the air as he threw his arms out to grab the branches of the next tree along the railing edge. He felt the slap and shock of pain as the wood hit his bare palm. But now Terak was swinging through the canopy of this tree, jack-knifing his body so that he landed on a wider, low branch, running along it until it started to dip and grow too thin to support even his delicate elvish weight.
Thock! Another small, black-feathered arrow hit the branch he was running along, tearing bark and splintering fibrous flesh as Terak used the flexibility of the branch to leap.
He cleared the railings as he had intended, and stretched out one leg in a side kick as he landed amongst the two outer-chasing orcs, Akar and Morthog.
“Ugh!” Terak’s kick was near-perfect, but even a leaping kick from a trained Enclave assassin wouldn’t be strong enough to break orcish bones. He smacked into Morthog’s chest, sending the orc down with a growl and him on top of the heavy brute—
Terak felt Morthog’s black claws reaching up to scratch at his sides and leg as he kicked himself off and into the cobbled lane outside the warehouse district. But he used Morthog’s natural strength to send his roll off balance as he skittered across the stones. The still-standing Akar leaped over the fallen body of his comrade and brought his own mace down.
Terak flipped just in time. The mace crashed to the floor beside him, cracking cobbles and sending up grit and dirt. The orc called Akar snarled with savage glee as he lashed out with a heavy, clawed foot. He caught a glancing blow across Terak’s ribs as he continued to roll.
“Hsss!” The elf gritted his teeth against the pain. He still had the heavy broadsword in one hand as he skipped to his feet, spinning on his heels to sweep a low arc at knee height—
“Urkh!” A growl of shock as the elf’s blade bit deep against the calf of the chasing Akar, sending up a spurt of green ichor and forcing the orc to stum
ble to one side—
“Elf!” The second orc, Morthog, had got to his feet and was bellowing his own challenge, as well as jumping forward with a long-handled, single-bladed ax.
Terak hissed with determination as he flipped the broadsword back, just managing to catch the ax blow that would have separated his head from his shoulders if it had fallen. The strike of steel versus steel was strong and powerful, and Terak felt his shoulders shudder with the impact.
How long!? Terak’s mind raced. How long could he hold out against these two orcs? Time seemed to slow for the elf as his mind became focused in the split-second reactions of the duel. There was no time for thought anymore, just cold and calm action.
If Terak had any chance to think it—which he didn’t—then he might have been thankful for being trained since a toddler by the harsh and cruel Enclave in the far north.
The wounded Akar struck out with his battle-mace from his crouch. Terak smacked that blow aside, just as Morthog’s ax lanced down toward his shoulder.
Terak didn’t have time to parry, so he turned his body, allowing the blade to whistle inches past him as he released one hand from the broadsword. He smacked Morthog’s ax-arm in a strike that should have at least fractured a bone in any human and forced the orc to drop his weapon—
In the heavy meat of Morthog, however, all it did was force the orc’s arm out wide as he swung a heavy clawed fist in his own returning punch—
Smack. The blow hit the side of Terak’s face, and it felt like Morthog had swung a tree at him. It wasn’t as powerful a blow as Vorg’s assailant had given him, one that had loosened teeth and his jaw. But it still sent Terak flying backwards to hit the stone wall of the warehouse and slide to the floor with a heavy thud.
“Ugh!” Terak coughed, his head spinning and his mind shouting, Get up! Move!
It is only pain. That’s all it is. Terak threw himself to one side as the wall was slammed by Akar’s mace with a heavy crack. The elf pushed and kicked himself to his feet, even though his eyes hadn’t really cleared and focused from the orcish fist and his ears were ringing with a woozy confusion.
It was more luck than skill that suddenly gave Terak the opportunity that he needed. He was pushing himself off the wall of the warehouse when his hand slipped and he fell. His hand had slid off the corner of the warehouse wall and into the alley that led back to the Clock Tower!
And, as Terak stumbled and rolled into the alleyway, it was also his luck that Morthog had been too eager, too frenzied by rage and the humiliation of being kicked to the floor. The ax-wielding Morthog had leapt right behind Terak. Terak’s sudden fall meant that Morthog’s legs hit Terak’s back, and the orc went flying into the alleyway.
There was a whistle of air behind and above Terak as Akar tried to bring the chase to a final—and fatal—end. But Terak was now jumping into a run from the floor, leaping over the rising form of Morthog and . . .
And Terak had his feet underneath him again! He was lengthening his stride, gaining speed. There were very few things that were as fast as an elf running with every ounce of concentration and strength in their body.
But the large, long-limbed forms of the orcs came a close second.
Terak raced down the alleyway between warehouses and back into Fisherman’s Lane, now with Akar and Morthog on their feet, bellowing their outrage as they chased him. As Terak’s fast steps took him across the cobbles, he heard the hoots and calls of Wekun and the other warband. The extra five orcs had vaulted the distant park railings and were joining the chase.
Seven, Terak’s mind had a moment to think. One elf versus seven orcs.
Terak didn’t like those numbers at all, but there ahead of him was his goal. Standing in its own small plaza, inside its own square of ornamental railings was a mostly wooden building. It was squat at the base with a stone tower rising from the side, reaching up to the smoke-clouded sky. Each face of the square tower held a gigantic circle of pale-gleaming crystal or glass.
It was the Old Clock Tower. He was almost there.
17
Showdown
Terak’s form bounded over the Clock Tower railings and hit the wood with a thump. A painful thump.
“Where you goin’, elf!” Wekun was laughing as the other orcs converged on Fisherman’s Lane, their rivalries forgotten in the exuberance of a good chase. Even the injured Akar, still limping from the green-bled gash on his leg, appeared to be in good spirits, his pain forgotten.
Ixcht it in the face! Terak snarled to himself. No time to try and pick the lock. He wasn’t sure how secure the Clock Tower door was going to be. He might not be able to even break it down.
But I’ve had my share of climbing. Terak took a breath, stuffed the borrowed broadsword under his belt, and jumped to catch the lintel of the doorframe, lifting himself up easily to get one foot on the wide slat of wood. He reached up to grasp the wooden overhang of the low roof.
Thock! One of the small, nasty little arrows hit the wooden wall beside Terak’s hand, reverberating in the wood. Oh yeah, he’d forgotten that one of them had a bow—
With a grunt, Terak threw himself onto the angled roof with its wooden shales and scrabbled to find purchase as—thock!—another arrow hit the door underneath him. Terak had a moment to thank the Moons and the Stars that the orc with the bow was at least inebriated—or a terrible shot.
“Give it ‘ere!” laughed Wekun’s opposite number—an opposing warband chief who also seemed to have forgotten the momentary hostilities.
Terak scrabbled and scrambled, remembering to widen his limbs to gain as much purchase as he could to stop himself from slipping. What I would give for a grappling hook about now!
Thock! This time, the arrow that hit the wooden roof did so just a foot from Terak’s head. It seemed that the other orc was a much better shot, which meant that Terak was in trouble. Serious trouble. He bunched his legs and lunged upwards and forwards, his silvered hand seizing the edge of where the wooden roof met the stone lintels of the tower.
“Shoot him!” One of the orcs was laughing—but their exuberance wasn’t exactly shared by Wekun’s warband.
“You’re taking too long!” Wekun growled. “Morthog! After him!”
As Terak pushed himself to teeter precariously at the base of the stone tower, his hands grasping the stone wall, he threw a glance downwards to see that Morthog had cleared the Clock Tower railings and was running for the building, his weapons secured as Terak’s were.
How good are orcs at climbing? Terak wondered. He saw the next ledge of one of the many windows in the tower and jumped upwards—
Crash! The arrow this time grazed Terak’s calf just as his hands hit the windowsill. A sharp, hot pain like a lightning bolt exploded across Terak’s lower leg.
“Ach!” Terak’s body tensed involuntarily against the pain, and the elf couldn’t drag himself up to the window as he had planned.
Move! Move! Terak was demanding of his body. He heard a crash as the Clock Tower door below proved far less of a problem for the heavier and larger Morthog.
Terak tried to ignore the pain, but he had no time to breathe it down and into his body. All he had time to do was to survive. With aching slowness, he started to pull himself up on shaking arms, having lost his momentum almost completely and having to rely just on his upper body strength.
“Urk!” There was a confused grunt from below and behind Terak, but the elf did not pause to give it any credence. He got the knee of his injured leg up to the windowsill, and then was pushing himself up to perch on the windowsill like a very large, strange bird before looking for the next handhold—
To hear a muffled crashing sound from behind the window. It looked out onto a set of stone stairs. A lumbering shadow emerged from these stairs. It was Morthog, racing up the inside of the Clock Tower to reach him.
“Grur-k!” Another grunt and a shout from the orcs below, followed by a cracking sound like a whip. Terak reached the upper lintel of the windowsill and pulled
himself up once more. He repeated the injured-knee and haul to get to the top of the window as the glass shattered outwards below him from Morthog’s fist.
“Elf!” the angered orc warrior roared, half leaning out of the window as the brute flailed with his talons upwards—
“Ixcht off!” Terak kicked out with a foot, batting one of the reaching hands away as his arms and shoulders strained to hold himself on the windowsill.
None of the blows were enough to do any damage to Morthog at all, but they stopped the orc from seizing his ankles or legs and flinging him to the roof or the cobbled street far below.
“Come ‘ere!” Morthog was cackling with laughter, knowing that it was just a matter of time before either Terak tired or the orc got lucky.
One more savage kick downwards hit the orc’s face. This time Terak heard the satisfying crack of cartilage and bone as his boot broke the orc’s nose.
“Bloody elf!” Morthog flailed as he retreated for a moment. It was all the opening that Terak needed to push himself up on the perilous lintel. This time not waiting, he jumped immediately to the next windowsill of the floor above. Terak’s anger and determination lent speed to his actions, bringing him up to the next ledge in one swift movement, rocking to a crouch once again before rising to grasp the top of the window.
With a snarl of annoyance, Morthog vanished back inside the tower. Terak knew that the orc would probably try to reach him at the next window, again.
“You! Traitor!” Terak heard an orc snarl in hatred from Fisherman’s Lane—and even though Terak could hear the crashing Morthog inside the tower approaching, he spared a quick glance down at the other assembled five orcs.
Well, three orcs now—plus one.
It was Vorg the Unwanted, the would-be Champion of the Hexan, standing in front of two dismembered orcish bodies in his black-iron battle plate. Two more scratches for his tally, an errant thought fled across Terak’s mind.
