Demonborn's Fjord

by Dante Sakurai

  “Shit,” Rowan breathed and continued along the outer wall.

  Gabrielle whispered, “Do ya think that was—”

  “Probably.”

  She laughed—quite loudly.

  Rowan LeMort: Stop laughing. Try to keep quiet.

  Gabby LeMort: I’m not laughing. It’s someone from up there.

  He glanced at the pentagon building. Light was filtering through curtains.

  Rowan LeMort: That sounded very Human.

  Gabby LeMort: Kinda like me! Hehehe.

  A cold shiver rode up his back as an image of Gabby-the-Orc assaulted his imagination, kind of funny actually. Sure, playing as an Orc carried advantages, but he wouldn’t wish such an ugly fate on himself or her.

  Around a bend and then two blocky wells, a gate slid into view.

  No guards?

  This escape had been far easier than Rowan had imagined. But he was only a level one; it couldn’t be too challenging. He let go of a breath that his lungs had held for him.

  As they approached the gate, deep masculine voices wafted down from high above.

  “We should send a scout party, chief.”

  “What have you seen?”

  “Omens. Death. Fire.”

  “Upon the clans? Or upon our foes?”

  “My sight is unclear. I warn you out of our—” The Orc growled. “Our livestock is escaping.”

  Rowan was already sprinting, kicking up dirt with each frantic step. The gate swallowed them, its metal teeth snapping shut, and a bell was ringing. Arrows flew from the nearest towers, missed by inches, one grazing Rowan’s arm and drawing enough blood to leave a dotted trail. He was hissing breaths, running through the burn, but the game’s reduced pain was easy to ignore, especially when hot adrenaline was pumping through his flesh and blood.

  “Northward,” he barked into the wind as another arrow grazed his calf.

  “Northward,” Gabrielle mimicked and giggled. She ran ahead. She was having the time of her life—and hadn’t been hit yet by using him as a meat shield. Lucky her.

  They ran and ran and ran into the Great Northern Plains as fast as their stat enhanced legs could take them under the moonlight.

  4

  Not two miles passed before Rowan’s stamina bar dipped below the ten percent mark. The rectangle was enlarged and glowing red like an artery about to burst. His head pounded with each stride; his lungs and throat burned with each dry breath. Sandy dust coated his tongue, and, at last, he resorted to his knees for support with sweaty palms.

  Gabrielle carried on for thirty yards before she also stopped, glancing back. Her eyes expressed both tire and exhilaration—and fear. “Come on, we have to—” She gasped for breath. “Have to keep going.”

  Rowan peered over his shoulder.

  The Orcs— Only one was was coming, but its bulky armor hindered its chase.

  Rowan picked up his rusty iron bar and eyed it up and down. It made for a mediocre dagger. “I once read a novel where fighters name their swords. You’re not much of… well, anything right now, but I name you…” He looked around. His eyes hitched on the two crescent moons. They were huge, over twice the size of Earth’s moon. One had a macabre reddish-orange tint, and its craters were shaped as though it were on fire, the crescent screaming in pain. “I name you Moonfyre. Fire with a Y. One day I’ll forge you into a legend.”

  A description window expanded above the rust.

  Moonfyre : Rusted Iron Bar

  This weapon used to be part of an Orcish jail.

  Type: Melee weapon (one or two handed)

  Damage: 2 (out of 999)

  “Sweet. The game even got the Y right.” Impressive AI. But crap damage rating.

  “Row,” Gabrielle said, laughing, “stop talking to your rod.”

  He smirked. “Give yours a name as well.”

  “Mmmmm.” She looked at her own bar thoughtfully, about to speak as the lone chasing Orc roared. Her eyes narrowed. She gripped her bar with both hands, a true fighter. “Come get some, smelly!”

  “Not literally,” Rowan exhaled and turned around. His stance was protective of her. Though the game allowed for varying levels of pain reduction depending on severity of injury, a primal element rooted in his psyche demanded that he act in such an untactful way. The brutish Orc was almost twice her size! A head taller than Rowan. He couldn’t just let the beasts turn her into mince pies, and this one sure looked to love its pies.

  The Orc with clumsy strides. An immense yet unimpressive axe protected a round belly. Rusty broken chainmail sand ripped leather bulged around stocky legs. The Orc was clearly out of breath even at that distance, slowing with each step. This fatty thing was all they sent?

  ? : Orc (Level 4)

  Health: 100%

  Only level four. Potentially easy.

  When Orc jogged near, Rowan suppressed a gag reflex from taking in a concentrated whiff of that terrible stench. Did the Orcs not believe in bathing? Or perhaps this garbage musk was their natural scent, aromatic in their noses—different species after all. Rowan coughed away his disgust and focused on the Orc, tensing for a brawl.

  “I smell breakfast!” the Orc bellowed, spittle flying.

  “You’ve clearly had too many breakfasts.”

  Gabrielle added, “Take a bath, fatty!”

  “Yaaaarhhhhhhh!” The brute jumped the remainder, swinging a diagonal uppercut, missing. Momentum sent that overweight body into a half tailspin.

  Rowan ducked a scale-padded elbow and shifted weight to his left leg, then stabbed the brute’s neck. Flab and thick skin stopped Moonfyre without breaking, and Moonfyre slipped on a surprise coat of congealed grease and sweat. Rowan staggered forward, unbalanced.

  The Orc roared down at Rowan’s face, its putrid breath unbearable. “Puny level one!” With the butt of the axe, the Orc delivered a cracking blow to Rowan’s ribs. A follow-up punch to the skull sent him to the ground. That stocky leg raised.

  Rolling, Rowan avoided the kick with an arm-length to spare. His broken rib pressed against a sharp rock, snapped, and punctured his left lung. The pain was bearable, reduced several-fold, ignorable but still there. The health bar at the bottom-left was flashing bright red, draining slowly. Sticky, hot blood ran down his side. But he had to fight. This was no time for stargazing. He pushed up to his knees.

  Too late.

  In slow motion, the the curved axe blade was coming down for a finishing decapitation.

  But Gabrielle wasn’t having any of it. Face scrunched like a lioness, she struck the brute’s unprotected hands with her iron bar. Three times, furiously. A fourth whack loosened the Orc grip enough for Rowan to wrestle the heavy weapon away. He stood to his feet and readied a slash, muscles and joints flexing painfully.

  The Orc growled frustration. It said two words in the mystic language, and its figure glowed red, flared with magic. With blurry speed, the Orc charged forth and punched Gabrielle’s midriff. Her eyes bulged. Tumbling, she crashed into an overgrown shrub.

  “You little prick!” Rowan swung with all his might. And the axe sank into that fatty neck, hitting bone. Blood gushed in a fountain of victory, spraying Rowan’s face with lovely salty warmth.

  The Orc sank to its knees. It whined in delicious, delicious pain. Its scream was something out of Orcish hell. Such delicious pain!

  Rowan pushed the axe further in, slowly. He savored its agony. This tub of lard hurt his sweet Gabrielle—badly by the looks of it. She wasn’t moving. “You alright?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Rowan blinked away moisture in his eyes, and picked up Moonfyre. “You hurt my precious fucktoy,” he said darkly, striking that ugly bald scalp in the color of excrement.

  “What did ya just call me?” Gabrielle mumbled.

  He swallowed bitter relief. “Good, you can still talk.”

  She said something lost to the wind.

  Rowan struck again. “Die!” And again. “Die!” He drew back his arm one last time. “Any f
inal words?”

  The Orc coughed, “Sp— Spare me.”

  “Die!” Rowan went for the eye, stabbing with everything he had—

  From the heavens, a bolt of lightning burned Rowan’s eyes. Thunder vibrated in his ears, and before he knew it, a larger, fitter Orc donned in ebony armor was gripping him in a loose choke hold. Invisible bands held his arms taut against his sides.

  ? : Orc (level 58)

  Health: 100%

  Fifty eight. Close to max level.

  Another flash of lightning illuminated the Plains. Another Orc appeared. This one was dressed in red-gray fur robes.

  ? : Orc (level 42)

  Health: 100%

  The Orc holding Rowan said, “I’ve seen enough.” The voice registered in a sinking heartbeat. This was the chief.

  “And your name is?” Rowan wheezed with a smirk.

  “Nargol. Chief of the Blackwolf clan.”

  “An honor. I’m Rowan. She’s Gabrielle. How are you?” Why bother with small talk? To buy time for her. For anything.

  Nargol’s yellow eyes narrowed by a quarter of an inch, staring intently at Rowan’s forehead for two seconds before shifting toward Gabrielle, then back to him.

  The other Orc, in a fancy red robe, walked up with a limp in his right leg. “We have much work to do. Let’s have these two wrapped, chief. Talking with our food won’t help us.”

  “Wait.” Nargol leaned in, and sniffed thrice. “Something is… wrong. I do not remember capturing these two. I do not remember their faces.”

  Rowan dared to chuckle. “That’s because you have Orc brains.”

  “Amusing, Human.”

  A third lightning strike, far dimmer, like an electrical spark, brought a lankier Orc to the scene. “Chief! The recruits are hungry. They want meat for breakfast again. May I take these two for butchering?”

  Rowan barked, “Back off. I’m the only one who’s allowed to eat her out.”

  Nargol sneered, disgusted. “You would eat your own kin?”

  “Oh yeah. I’d gobble her up whole before I’d let any of you touch her.”

  “Sickening.”

  The lanky Orc said, “Chief. Why are you wasting time?”

  “Silence.” He sniffed once more. “These two are… different.”

  The Orc in the robe said, “They are adventurers from another world. Listen to the way they speak.”

  Rowan was impressed. They were as smart as Humans—some of them, at least. It was difficult to keep an uninterested face. “Obviously.”

  “Hehehe, ya just figured out,” Gabrielle said.

  Nargol said, “Something else is different. I haven’t felt this magic since…” His other hand lifted. A crooked index finger extended, and that untrimmed nail scratched Rowan’s cheek, taking blood and a shallow line of skin. A long tongue licked. Those yellow eyes dilated to the brim.

  Nargol recoiled. “Everyone! Back away!”

  Then the world was spinning, Rowan flying through the air. He slid against the sandy ground into a thorny plant. It pricked his eye, painless compared to his throbbing rib. Gabrielle landed next to him. “Heya Row,” she quipped weakly. She tried to smile.

  “Hey.” He returned the smile. “Almost got our first kill. What a shame.”

  “Yup. Maybe next time.”

  The Orc in the robe said, “Chief? Are you injured?”

  “Demons in Human skin! Don’t harm them! Don’t drink the blood! Don’t eat the flesh! Begone, spawns of Hell! Begone from our lands, and never return! Begone!” Nargol raised his battle axe above his head and began chanting in the mystic language.

  Three rhyming lines echoed. Three waves of light-blue magic poured from his body. Three concentric circles enclosed on the demonic couple, and with a final echoing word, a column of light pierced the heavens. And when the light dimmed, only Orcs stood on the Plains.

  Nargol huffed strained breaths. “They are gone from our lands.”

  “What will we eat now?” the lanky Orc groaned.

  “Silence. Never consume the flesh of Demons less you wish to lose life to the chaos within.”

  The Orc in the robe scratched his head, saying quietly, “Are you sure they were Demons, chief?”

  “More sure than I have ever been.” Nargol spat onto the ground. “Their blood. I’ve never tasted such demonic taint, and just from two drops.”

  “They were both level one! They were close to death and—”

  “Never underestimate the trickery of their kind. Their minds work in ways mortals will never understand.”

  The Orc in the robe crouched by splashes of Rowan’s blood. “Demon blood? Looks no different from Human runoff.” He reached out, but Nargol was there in an instant, pulling him away.

  “Don’t,” Nargol growled. “You are not strong enough, Kurog.” He stared down the subordinate, daring him to make a challenge here at the crack of dawn.

  It didn’t take long for Kurog’s head to dip in submission. “I will take your word, chief.”

  Nargol said, “Get back to the barracks. We leave after breakfast for Gorzun. No meat.”

  The lanky Orc groaned, “No meat!?”

  “Silence, grunt. Final warning.”

  Kurog masked his disappointment well. “We have work here—”

  “No, the clans must know the adventurers have returned. They could be among our midst this moment as friend or foe.” A worried grumble shook his throat. “We must also report what has happened here. Demons walk this plane once more. This may only be the beginning. Understood?”

  After too long of a pause, Kurog said, “Understood, chief.”

  The Orc trio departed with three simultaneous lightning strikes.

  The dawn sun set the skies ablaze, and a fatty corpse was already decomposing. Vicious crow-like beasts spiraled downward from high above.

  5

  Gabrielle’s crushing embrace was restricting blood flow. Rowan didn’t mind—he repeated this to himself—the loss of feeling in his fingers, because, above all, he wished for her to heal, mentally and physically. After that bout of extreme violence, she was holding up well.

  She hadn’t ever been in a real fight, especially not a fight to the death. It clearly showed. Her usual cheerful demeanor had been hurt, but not killed. He doubted her bubbly spirit could be popped. She would always be his crazy, quirky Gabby.

  Maybe too crazy during a certain time each month, though he’d never say that out loud.

  “Row,” she said in a small voice, “I’m scared.”

  His whole face twisted. “What, seriously? It’s just a fancy portal graphical effect.” Shades of electric blue and ivory white were rushing forth in thick strands and eddies, like a sideways waterfall. It was obvious Nargol had cast some kind of portal spell. They were floating through, weightless.

  “Nope. Just kidding. Hehehe.” She patted the back of his numb hand. “And I saved ya back there.”

  “I guess you did. Nice job.”

  “Mmhm… So what did ya mean by precious fucktoy? Hmm?”

  A cough scraped up his throat. “You know.” He smirked, and, on cue, the rushing magic around them dispersed in a shower of electric sparks.

  Fresh cold air filled Rowan’s lungs. His feet met solid ground—soft, solid, damp ground that his toes sank into. Morning dew sparkled like a million diamonds. He was entrenched in waist-high grass, standing a few hundred yards from a body of calm water, perhaps a lake.

  Sparse clumps of pine trees grew in just the right places to give the meadow a highly pleasing aesthetic as though painted by an old master. Thick shrubbery complemented the pines… as well as a few other trees which he did not recognize. In the distance across the lake, steep mountainsides walled off that side of valley. The only thing missing was a flock of sheep.

  And, in fact, there were mountains in all directions, and the lake stretched rightward all the way to the horizon and beyond. That was no lake. This was a fjord. And from what he could see, they were standing a m
ile from a narrow, rigid gap in the stony mountains. Just one gap. Very safe. Very homey.

  Gabrielle hugged him tighter, shivering. “Row, I’m cold.” She sniffed. “Build me a campfire.”

  “You can do it yourself,” he said playfully.

  “I need to lie down,” she said seriously. “I think that magic punch skill drained my body or something.”

  Rowan sucked in a breath and held it. The very mention of that Orc stoked embers of hate. They were going to pay. That whole damned outpost was going to burn by the time he was done with them, Zachery included. Nargol’s mercy, however, was noted. He could live for saving Gabrielle further pain. Rowan exhaled and looked into her eyes. Dark rings hung deep. “Yeah, sure. Take a nap—or log out for a bit. I’ll setup camp, and I think this might be a good location for a base.”

  “Kay.” She sank onto her bottom, dropped her iron bar, then laid back. The grass made for decent makeshift beddings. She mumbled, “I’m hungry too. Get me some strawberries, master. I’d like a basket full when I wake.”

  His eyes rolled. “Fine.” The game’s hunger and cooking systems had escaped him. It was one of the many features players had been looking forward to for many months; for good reason. The dishes Synaptic had previewed looked simply delectable. And most importantly, players did not need use of magically-enhanced lavatories—an adventurer perk. NPCs were not as lucky.

  Most intrusively, a panel expanded in front of his nose.

  Gabby LeMort has invited you to a party. Do you accept?

  He nodded, and her party entry appeared at the left along with his own. While his icon was a default silhouette, hers was a custom watercolor painting of her face that she had done during high school. Cute.

  He said, “Good idea. I’ll wake you with the ping system if something happens.”

  “Or…” She giggled sarcastically. “Just let me get eaten by a bear. Either’s fine.”