C.P.D. Harris's Blog, page 3

Thralls of a Dread Lord (1.84T)

Welcome to my weekly serial. This is a rough draft that I am working on, for your reading pleasure. It is a fairly grim tale, so be warned.

Here is the first post from this series.

Here is last week’s entry.

The Dread Lord’s tower loomed above the rocky crags that rent the ground above the largest city of the Fellspawn. Built on a high plateau, the tower was impossibly high and thin, like the blade of some terrible weapon piercing the sky. The peaks of the mountains around it did not eclipse its height, and they did not seem half as foreboding despite their jagged roughness. The tower had many names and no name, for as tall and mighty as it was this edifice was purely defined by he who dwelt within: The Dread Lord.

From a safe distance, Retaak watched the vast throngs of Spawn marching toward the Dread Lord’s tower. It had to be tribute, he realized. The Dread Lord had called on the far flung reaches of Bemachhorak, forcing even the pettiest of Warlords to come forth to give gifts and swear fealty. It was one of the purest forms of rulership that The Dread Lord engaged in, calling his subordinates with Kasukaak, compelling them to attend him and pay tribute. They, in turn, felt the need to bring some of their followers; Spawn trusted each other less than they trusted the elves.

Observing some of the passing clans and warbands, Retaak saw banners and sigils from the far edges of the Dread Lord’s lands. The Frost Wolves, whose icy sigils were easy to spot, lived more than nine-days to the North, at a force-march pace. For such distant groups to gather The Tribute must have been called while Retaak and his band were in Greyrock, capturing Albyursia. As Seneschal, Ushochhushi was responsible for handling the logistics of Bemachhorak, which meant that he would have known about the call to Tribute as soon as the Dread Lord desired it. It did not sit well with Retaak. Intrigue among the Spawn was always brutal and he he was very concerned.

As he made his way to the Dread Lord’s Tower, blending with the travelers, Retaak listened to the conversations of his fellow spawn as often as he could, stealing snippets of conversation as if they were precious metals.

“Heard him was angry, been too much intrigue.”

“I think it is war. It is time that we rid the land of elves for good!”

“Who knows? Perhaps it has been too long since the last Tribute?”

At last, following several bands of skilled mercenaries who hired their services to clans and warbands, Retaak climbed up to the plateau upon which the Tower stood. It was less than a mile away, cutting the sky like an executioner’s blade about to fall. There, gathered before the Dark Lord’s Tower were thousands upon thousands of spawn, all in groups bearing gifts of fealty for the Dread Lord. It was an awesome sight, arms and armour glittering and brutal, banners whipping in the wind, pavilions and rude tents staking out the territory of various groups from the distant reaches. The smell of food made his belly rumble, even as the thundering of war-drums sent shivers down his spine. Tribute.

Thralls of a Dread Lord (1.83T)

Welcome to my weekly serial. This is a rough draft that I am working on, for your reading pleasure.

It is a fairly grim tale, so be warned.

Here is the first post from this series.

Here is last week’s entry.

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As Retaak travelled through the mountains and valleys of central Bemachhorak he noticed a great many Fellspawn on the move. The grey stone roads were rivers of Fellspawn marching to the heart of the realm under the banners of warlords ranging from petty to the greatest of them all. Even the high trails that he favoured for privacy and swiftness host countless little bands and even a few more recognizable clans and warbands. Retaak avoided others as much as he could, but often simply trusted to anonymity when he had to. Something momentous was afoot and Retaak could not help but worry that Ushochhushi was a part of it.

Only The Dread Lord could bring so many of the Fellspawn together. Retaak did not feel compelled, but The Dread Lord did not always rely on the compelling power of kaasukak. Why waste energy commanding all of the spawn, when he could simply yank the chains of their leaders. The thought of Ushochhushi being compelled was enough to set a smile on his face.

As he left Uzaagwaar far behind, Retaak relaxed, trusting that the sheer number of his fellow spawn would frustrate any tracking efforts from Ushochhushi’s Guards.

The Seneschal had left Waachear behind as Uzaagwaar as a trap. No doubt Ushochhushi had promised Uyagi and the others that he would be merciful as a reward for delivering Albyursia to them. He did not count on Retaak being able to break Waachear’s Kaasukak. It was not unheard of for a spawn to break the compelling. Those that did were always killed. Even now, Retaak wondered why, after being broken so many times at the hands of the torturer he had been able to cast off his will.

Retaak could find no satisfactory answer. Encounters with a powerful elf and a spider-demon were variables that he could not account for, nor did any of the spawn understand the true nature of the compelling, save that it emanated from the Dread Lord and was passed only to those he chose to serve him. He did not know enough.

But Retaak knew Ushochhushi. Dragging Waachear out to Uzaagwaar required effort. Ushochhushi did not want Retaak interfering in his plans, that was clear. Those plans involved whatever summons the Dread Lord had called and whatever power Albyursia represented. Was he giving the elf as tribute or did Ushochhushi have even grander designs than his master’s favour? Retaak wondered…

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Thralls of a Dread Lord (1.82T)

Welcome to my weekly serial. This is a rough draft that I am working on, for your reading pleasure.

It is a fairly grim tale, so be warned.

Here is the first post from this series.

Here is last week’s entry.

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The walls of the web of secret passages connecting Ushochhushi’s pressed close on Retaak’s broad frame. Being caught in these close confines would make it hard for him to fight, but with the tower guards intent on smashing their way into the chamber where Waachear’s broken body lay, he could see an opportunity.

He followed the tunnel back toward where he had entered, in the slave chambers, but instead of exiting there, he followed another passage. As he crept, he could not help but smile at how the Seneschal’s poor qualities were working against him. His slaves had shown Retaak the tunnels and Ushochhushi’s own paranoia had kept the knowledge from his guard. He almost laughed.

By the time the guards smashed down the doors and found the secret passage, Retaak was well ahead of them. He groped his way through the secret ways down to counting rooms, kitchens, and eventually into the bowels of the great tower. He could smell the smoke and Iron of a mighty forge, but underneath that the stink of fear and old blood that put him in mind of Waachear’s lair; a torture chamber. Spawn like Ushochhushi treated the pain of others like some kind of sport.

Retaak crept through the underground. No doubt there was a tunnel back to the Fellspawn Warrens, but even the blunt minded ones who followed would check there. No, he needed to think if he wanted to save Albyursia from Ushochhushi. He needed to be as cunning and as smart as the Seneschal. He needed to understand his enemy’s plans.

Considering his options, Retaak followed a tunnel that rose to the surface. The winding passage was part of the tower’s siege defences and had several redoubts built in along its length. The locks at each of the these had been picked open, and Retaak smiled when he understood that he had the good fortune to be following the escaping elves.

Retaak emerged in a stand of tall spruce on a rise some distance from the tower. Once he was sure he was safe, he turned his attention back, watching soldiers scurrying in and out of the doors and black smoke billowing from several windows. Chaos reigned in the shadow of austere old Uzaagwaar and he grinned at this.

After a few moments his thoughts returned to Waachear and then to Ushochhushi. He truly did need to consider how he was going to help his friend escape the Seneschal, but to do so required that he think about what to do next instead of rushing headlong into danger. Waachear had been certain of his control and had failed because of that, Retaak could not count on Ushochhushi doing the same. The Seneschal was too cunning and would be well warned that Retaak had escaped.

He left Uzaagwaar behind him and took to the old trails that led to the Fellspawn warrens. These paths were seldom used and would afford him time to think while he moved to confront Ushocchushi.

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Thralls of a Dread Lord (1.81T)

Late last year, I released my latest book, Bloodlust: The Reckoning!

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Welcome to my weekly serial. This is a rough draft that I am working on, for your reading pleasure.

It is a fairly grim tale, so be warned.

Here is the first post from this series.

Here is last week’s entry.

<>

Waachear held the knife in front of him as Retaak took a step into the room. Hands that had been so steady through endless hours of torture now shook as he faced the Ogre.

“Oh how I have longed for this day, Waachear,” said Retaak. “Even now it seems like a dream come true, like all of the other times I fantasized about escaping from your tender mercies.”

“Stay back!” said Waachear. “I am warning you Retaak. I have Kaasukak over you. Don’t make me use it!”

“Why don’t you try?” asked Retaak. “I am going to kill you Waachear. That knife is not going to stop me. Why don’t you try it again. I think we both know what will happen this time.”

The Torturer summoned up whatever reserves of will he had left, standing straighter. “KNEEL” he shouted and in his voice was the compelling.

Retaak felt its power as a pressure in his head, and he set his will against it. This time the struggle was brief and his pain was less. Waachear yelped and stumbled back, clutching his head as blood poured from his nose onto the rich silk cushions in the chamber where Ushochhushi played with his slaves.

“Dread Lord, why?” cried Waachear as Retaak, grinned.

Retaak just laughed. He was truly free of Waachear. It was a wondrous feeling, though tainted by what the Torturer had already taken from him. How many memories had he lost on the rack? How many times had he been broken in the halls of iron and screaming? He almost choked on his own laughter as it turned dark.

“Your masters have abandoned you Waachear,” said Retaak, his voice almost a whisper. “Beg all you want, but the Dread Lord and his Seneschal have no ears for your words now. You have nothing left but that knife. Come at me and die.”

Waachear stood. “Filthy Wildborn scum. They’ll tear you apart.”

“Their hands are far more merciful than yours ever were, Waachear,” said Retaak. “At least they would allow me to die.”

“I tried to make you useful, you ungrateful vermin,” snarled the Torturer. “Fellspawn are made to serve the Dread Lord. I tried to turn you into something useful. The Dread Lord desired your service, wretch that you are, and I made you worthy of his attention. You ruined my work, Retaak.”

“Your work?” snarled Retaak, surging forward and knocking Waachear to the ground with sudden ferocity. “You cut me, you burned me, you stole my memories,”

“I made you stronger!” howled Waachear.

“You took them from me!” roared Retaak as he brought down his weapon, cleaving into Waachear’s skull. His tormentor clung to life for a moment, broken eyes in a broken skull trying in vain to focus and then he slumped over, lifeless.

It was not as Retaak had imagined it. He stared at the body. Waachear had haunted him for as long as he could remember and now he was dead. There was a certain satisfaction in killing him, but with Albyursia in the hands of Ushochhushi it was of diminished importance. He had to escape the tower and rescue his lover.

The sound of a ram hitting the door, wood groaning and spawn heaving, broke Retaak from his reverie. He shook his head. It seemed like none of them had considered looking for secret passages. Perhaps escape was not impossible, after all.

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Thralls of a Dread Lord (1.80T)

Last week, I released my latest book, Bloodlust: The Reckoning!

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Welcome to my weekly serial. This is a rough draft that I am working on, for your reading pleasure.

It is a fairly grim tale, so be warned.

Here is the first post from this series.

Here is last week’s entry.

<>

Retaak watched the stairs while the Elf that he had just freed set about releasing her fellows. They whispered in their own tongue, casting glances at him and at the bodies left in his wake. Down below the guards were carefully making their way up the stairs. Still, even if they were slow and thorough he would not make his way through the door to Retaak before they were upon him. The stairs at this level were very defensible; he might be able to kill as many as ten of them before he was overwhelmed.

He glared at the door.

“COME OUT WAACHEAR!” he roared. “Face me like a warrior!”

There was no response. The thick door remained closed. Retaak spat.

There was a little noise behind him. He turned to see the elves, six women and one man, staring at him. They were all armed now.

“Go,” he said to them. “You are free now. They will not be expecting you, so you should be able to hide and escape while they come for me.”

Their faces were hard. For a moment Retaak considered that freeing them might have been a mistake. They had every reason to hate Fellspawn after being enslaved by Ushochhushi. After a tense moment, the woman that he had freed, spoke:

“There is another way into the chamber,” she said. “The mast–, that bastard Ushochhushi, does not like his guards to see how often we attend him in his chambers. There is a secret way. It will be locked, but the door is not so strong as this.”

“Thank you,” said Retaak. “Be safe.”

“We will escape or die trying,” said the elf, her eyes glimmering like wetted steel. “But we know this place better than most. Fear not.”

Retaak nodded.

“What do they call you?” asked the male elf as the others began to leave, silent and alert.

“I am Retaak Wildborn,” said Retaak.

“We will remember you,” said the Elf. “You have our thanks.”

“I do what is right,” said Retaak. “No one should be treated as you were, even enemies.”

The elf nodded grimly, and then he was gone. Retaak paused for a moment, before shouts and sounds from the stairs below spurred him into motion. Waachear awaited.

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Retaak’s nose wrinkled in disgust as he made his way through the slave’s passage to the chamber in which Waachear hid. Ushochhushi was so at home with his elven slaves that he allowed them freedom to roam that no free being would ever enjoy. What kind of sick power did he think he had?

The passage was cramped for an ogre, but the elf woman spoke true. The door to the chamber was made of wood, and although it was locked, it took only a grunt and a hard shove for Retaak to break it.

Waachear, caught by surprise, stared at him. It was almost comical. The torturer had a long knife in hand, but it looked pathetically small next to the hefty axe that Retaak lifted, smiling.

“You’ve had this coming for a long time,” snarled Retaak, thinking of all that he, and others had suffered at the hands of this monster.

Waachear, eyes still wide, lifted the knife.

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Teaser Three: This time its Personal

Once again I am putting off Thralls to work on getting my series finale of Domains of the Chosen out before the new year. Here is a taste:

He took guilty pleasure in watching the giants and the Chosen. He could not believe the size of the Hittans, towering over the houses in many sections of the city. They made short work of barricades and small formations of Legionnaires, but in turn attracted the attention of Chosen. It was his experience as a spectator of the battle so far that watching the giants was the best way to see the best fighting because they always attracted the best among the Krassian forces.

Even at this distance the roar of the new Long Barrel cannons, weapons similar to what the fleet had been using for decades, was deafening.

The storm had subsided as well, so the crow’s perch wasn’t bobbing much at all. It was idyllic really. He had nothing to do but watch the horizon for storms, and watch the action on land. The Legions would route the Wirn, they always did.

Distantly, he saw a whirlwind surge through a street, tossing men aside like dolls. He could not tell if it was a spell or some manifestation of the strange weather. He watched a pair of giants sparring with a stubborn Legion formation, attacking it from afar with spear lunges that could cover almost a dozen paces. The giants would rend furrows in the Legion ranks, only to have them reform a moment later. Zhintis was wondering why they did not retreat when a cannon shot took one of the giants in the shoulder, sending him toppling back with a spray of blood. The Legionnaires charged the fallen giant, swarming and hacking until his companion could drive them off. The fallen giant could not rise and a moment later a second cannon ball screamed into his companion, felling him as well.’

“That’s what you get, big bastards,” muttered Zhinitis.

The giant still on his feet bellowed and charged the Legionnaires, who scattered this time, disappearing down alleys and into tunnels.

His view of what happened next was obscured as the ship shook and shuddered as if they had just scrapped a sandbar. Zhintis looked down. The water was cloudy. Before he could make a thorough examination his attention was drawn to the Mazurin III, a nearby Ironclad. Something was moving along the starboard side, huge and purple, pushing out of the water. It was the size of a whale, but no whale. Every sailor knew and dreaded what he saw.

Teaser Switcheroo Two, Electric Boogaloo

Once again I am too overwhelmed with work to throw down with a a Thralls episode, so here is a teaser from Bloodlust: The Reckoning, book ten of my Domains of the Chosen series.

Valdarr blinked, trying to clear the image from his eyes as if it was an illusion. The Krassians stubbornly remained. The scouts had given their reports, but still he hoped they were mistaken somehow, now as they cleared the trees half a day south of Sonarion’s Crossing, he could see that they were right. Chosen Sadira and her allies were arrayed between them and the path to freedom. Their shields were locked and their ranks solid, interspersed here and there with Daeri Homeguard and the looming forms of Juggernauts.

The Nosgoth formed up behind him, always ready to battle. The forest and the storm had been kind to them thus far, and he knew they were in fighting condition. He had double the numbers of the Krassians. There were mighty bond-beasts in their ranks and the last of the Deomen Warriors from across the sea. Deliria and Milkeye commanded formidable magic. And yet, the tactician in him it was not enough.

The Krassians too, had magic and there were no Wirn here to bend it back upon them. A single Chosen could turn the tide against his numbers; two was an insurmountable challenge in open battle. He might even be able to beat them on the ground of his own choosing, but where would he find that around here?

They could turn back. The forest would shelter them. The Juggernauts that moved the Krassian Legions could not catch them in the trees. Perhaps their luck with the storm would even hold. They could go south to Dun Loryn and cross there, if the Wirn would let them. If they could lose the Krassians and their infernal machines. He still did not know how they got ahead of him so swiftly and stealthily.

“We are ready to fight, and to die beside the Nosgoth,” said Giitan from beside him.

“I can see no way to shift the battle to our favour,” said Valdarr. “Do you, Giitan?”

“Mud will slow their automatons some, but the ground still favours them if we fight here,” said Giitan. “We could carve our names into their ranks before we fall, if we are bold. If we cannot live on, let us take on new life as legends.”

Valdarr chuckled. He knew his people would appreciate those words. Defiance was in their blood. But he knew Giitan well enough to know that the Deomen Gold Mask wanted to live.

“I would rather live on,” said Milkeye, though his tone was as flat as ever. Giitan frowned at the Bone Mask. “Deliria would tell you to do the same, Valdarr. She has gone to them.”

Moonfang whimpered. Valdarr did not even need to look. His heart simply sank while his eyes cast about wildly for his Deliria. He caught sight of her, appearing as from nothing in front of the enemy line. She was dressed in a fine green gown, and even at this distance he could see flowers in her hair.

Valdarr vaulted onto Moonfang without pause, spurring the Wolf toward the Krassian lines.

“HOLD FOR MY SIGNAL NOSGOTH!” he bellowed.

As Moonfang sped across the ground, he saw Chosen Sadira step forth to greet Deliria, swords in hand.

Teaser Switcheroo

I did not have time for Thralls this week, I am deep into re-writes on the final book in my Domains of the Chosen series (Bloodlust: The Reckoning) and I want to get that pivotal moment when Waachear finally runs out of room to run right.

Also I forgot to charge my work laptop twice, which is shockingly wasteful of precious writing time.

Instead, enjoy a teaser from the new book:

The Choppers were now drawn back from the Kirifan Phalanx. Some still skirmished with Elites in alleys and buildings, but on the main battlefield they gathered in mobs a hundred paces apart. The field, a parade ground and park in the midst of the most crowded part of the city, was now littered with corpses and scorched by spells. The ground was uneven, cobbles upturned by incredible forces, dirt melted and pooling like wax in some places. Blue remembered this park from his youth, one of the few Green spaces in the dense Tallhouses, and his sense of triumph dimmed at the destruction wrought here.

It was then that he saw a stirring in the enemy lines. He sensed power building as dozens of Heretics walked through the agitated ranks of the enemy. One of their number in particular drew his attention, a massive man whose thick muscles were evident even through his loose garb. Something about the way he moved and the set of his jaw was instantly familiar to Blue Hornet. Ten paces away from the lines of snarling, growling Choppers the figure cast off its robes. The shock of recognition tore a gasp from The Chosen’s throat.

“Surprised?” asked the ____ who had once gone by the name of ________.

and how about one more?

“Chosen, this is the last Barricade before the arena.”

Brand looked up. So it was. How long had he been fighting? This was all they had left now. They’d taken a toll on the Wirn at each barricade, but any real hope of victory had been lost hours ago. As he stared down the street, Brand saw the Wirn joining up with others, massing in their thousands for the final push. There were too many.

“Fuck this,” he snarled, pulling the arrow from his shoulder and cauterizing the wound with a spell. Even at this distance the Wirn tried to interfere with his magic, but he was a Chosen, by the ancestors, and resisted their efforts like he was slapping away their hands. “I will make them pay…”

“Chosen… the Wirn will not be kind to the women and children should we fall,” said Mileena. “Should we pass out knives and poison?”

Suicide was far preferable to the torment the Wirn would inflict on anyone unfortunate enough to fall into their hands after this kind of battle. But still, Brand could not bear to give the order.

“Not while I draw breath, Mileena.”

His Hearthbound nodded, relief on her face.

“Here they come!” shouted one of the scouts.

Thralls of a Dread Lord (1.79T)

Welcome to my weekly serial. This is a rough draft that I am working on, for your reading pleasure.

It is a fairly grim tale, so be warned.

Here is the first post from this series.

Here is last week’s entry.

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On and on they ran, their feet pounding the stone and metal stairs of the great tower. From below, Retaak could hear the footfalls of his pursuers, but they did not concern him. Only Waachear mattered to him now, and although Uzaagwaar was tall, the torturer would soon run out of places to run.

With no interference, Retaak closed steadily on the winded Hob. Waachear was gulping air in uneven breaths, while Retaak paced himself, gaining ground as his prey ran out of energy.

“I am coming Waachear!” he shouted.

A bolt slapped into the stones in front of him, and Retaak kept running, trying to put the curve of the stairs between him and the attacker below. A window flashed past and he saw the mountains and the distant green of the forests. They were well up in the tower now.

He rushed past an alcove, then stopped, wedging his bulk inside. He keep still, barely breathing, willing himself to silence. Soon enough he heard the sound of his closest pursuer. He waited until they drew close and then leapt out.

The crossbow twanged, but the wide-eyed guardswoman was surprised and the bolt went wide. Retaak’s fist caught her in the temple and she sunk to the ground. He turned and ran, knowing that Waachear would not have made it far.

He caught sight of an open doorway on the next landing. Had Waachear sought refuge in a room? He doubt it that the Hob would leave an open door, it had to be a trap or some other gambit; Waachear would lock himself in a room if he found one with a sturdy enough door that it would keep him safe from Retaak. He ignored the open door and kept running.

Soon enough he caught sight of Waachear. The Torturer was at the top of the staircase fumbling with a set of keys, trying to unlock the door to one of Ushochhushi’s chambers. Two guards stood between him and Retaak, blades at the ready.

“I have come for Waachear,” Retaak intoned. “You need not die for him.”

The guards ran at him, coordinating their attack as they charged. Retaak slowed, watching them, anticipating their movements.

“Kill him!” shouted Waachear, shrill and foolish. The last thing the guards needed was to be distracted by their leader. Of course they would try to kill him.

Retaak struck at that moment, shifting swiftly to the left to put one guard in front of the other. As they turned he kicked out, slamming his boot into the lower lip of the guards shield. The guard was skilled enough that the upper lip did not crash into his chin, but not so skilled that he was able to ward off Retaak as the Ogre took advantage of his imbalance and tossed him down the stairs.

The second guard was swift and sure, slashing Retaak, almost opening his throat. Retaak stepped back, feigning his wound being worse that it was. The warrior relaxed and stepped in for the kill, only to meet death as Retaak shifted and struck cobra-swift, ramming him through with his blade.

Above him Waachear swore and slammed the door, locking it behind him. Retaak snarled as he saw the solid construction of the chamber; it would take him too long to break it down.

He cast about for an answer when his eyes fell upon one of Ushochhushi’s slave girls, watching him warily. She was chained up inside of the room that she was cleaning, an abhorrent predicament. She flinched as Retaak strode toward her, lowering her eyes.

“Fear not,” said Retaak, breaking the chain. “Elves are not my enemy.”

The elf woman stared at her chains in disbelief.

“There are weapons on the dead soldiers, back there,” said Retaak. “If you know of another way into that chamber I can keep the guards busy while you free your fellows.”

The elf nodded.

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Thralls of a Dread Lord (1.78T)

Welcome to my weekly serial. This is a rough draft that I am working on, for your reading pleasure.

It is a fairly grim tale, so be warned.

Here is the first post from this series.

Here is last week’s entry.

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Retaak’s drummed the cobbled stairs of Uzaagwaar as he ran after the Hobgoblin torturer. Waachear’s footfalls were light in comparison and he flew up the enormous outer staircase without looking back.

“I’ll find you by the trail of coward’s piss!” Retaak bellowed at his fleeing form.

As swift as Waachear was, he was not fast enough to lose Retaak entirely. The Ogre Bulls who had had been acting as the Torturer’s guard, on the other hand, were being left further and further behind with every step.

“Stop him, stop him,” Waachear shouted to a pair of armoured guards that he passed. The barely had time to draw steel before Retaak was on them. He did not bother raising his sword for that would slow him down. Instead he lunged, driving his shoulder into the chest of the guard. Size and momentum were to his advantage and the first guard crashed into the other sending them both flying back into the room from which they had come with a clatter.

Retaak did not stop to see what their fate was; he was intent on Waachear now. Ushochhushi had taken Albyursia and left Waachear to deal with him. Retaak intended to slake his sorrows with the blood of the man who had taken so much from him.

He could hear the hob swearing under his breath as he ran. Waachear was not used to running. he was a powerful man in the ranks of Bemachhoraak. He was not used to being afraid; Waachear was used to invoking fear in others.

“I’m coming for you Waachear,” shouted Retaak.

From above another guard appeared, dropping to one knee and firing a crossbow as Waachear ran past. His aim was good and the blot leapt through the air, grazing Retaak’s shoulder. He threw the weapon to one side and drew his sword.

“For the Dread Lord!” shouted the guard, lunging at Retaak as he came within striking distance.

The guard was big for an orc, almost of a size with Retaak himself. His lunge was good, but Retaak anticipated it and swept it to one side with his own blade, following up with a savage cut toward the other guard’s chest. The guard was surprisingly fast and caught Retaak’s blade with his own. Retaak felt a weakness in the orc’s blade as they clashed and swung again, this time shattering the blade and cutting the shoulder of his foe. Undaunted the orc kicked him in the chest, sending Retaak stumbling back. The orc reached for his long knife, but Retaak caught the discard crossbow with his boot and kicked it up. The heavy wood and metal contraption caught the surprised guard in the face, sensing him sprawling. Retaak was on the move immediately, kicking the orc to keep him down.

He considered stabbing him, but rejected the idea of killing such a brave fighter if he could avoid it.

he stormed up the stairs, high up into Uzaagwaar. He could see that Waachear, unused to the kind of endurance required of a solider was slowing down. The hob looked back over his shoulder and Waachear smiled at him.

“You won’t escape me, Torturer,” he shouted.

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