High Orc (9)
He had come not to save Narinhoon Ibaatar's life, he declared, but to defend his death.
He would tear off Vesta's ears and make a necklace of them.
So Karakh proclaimed.
Vesta could not understand the fury boiling over in Karakh. Nor did he fully grasp the man's vow to defend another's death, either.
What does he think he'll accomplish by defending Narinhoon's death from me? Does he want to leave the kill to his own kind? Is that what he means — that Karakh intends to do it himself?
But he did not dwell on it. Vesta had no time for such luxuries.
Somewhere in the mountains, Narinhoon Ibaatar was waiting.
Vesta wanted to hurry and put a stop to Ainuwail's destruction. Karakh's feelings, his convictions — none of it carried much weight for him right now.
"If you can. If you can."
Karakh could not swallow his emotions. Vesta had given him the very same answer Narinhoon once had. Naturally, Vesta knew nothing of this.
Only Karakh saw the two men, Narinhoon and Vesta, superimposed upon one another.
"I have heard the rumors about you. That you wield spirit sorcery in a human body."
Use it, Karakh urged. Throw every trick you have into the fight. Ride your horse, swing your sword, call upon your spirits. He offered the advice almost like a plea.
"I shall do the same."
Having said this, Karakh raised his head.
Awoooooo—
The howl of a wolf. It was far beyond mere imitation.
It was a cry that seemed capable of holding a conversation. A howl that seemed as though it could summon something.
Here it comes. And it's a big one.
Something came tearing through the darkness. A swift beast. Its blurred silhouette looked almost human, but the way it ran was pure wolf.
"A werewolf."
The creature emerged from the shadows, eyes gleaming. A colossal werewolf. It stared at Vesta and Gansinbae, drool dripping in long strands from its jaws.
Impressive. A beast of that size really could hunt horses. Yet Karakh showed no fear of the monster whatsoever — he simply walked up close and stroked its nape.
"Let's go, brother."
Vesta tapped Gansinbae's neck.
"Don't be scared of a mere wolf."
Unlike Vesta, Gansinbae could not wield a blade. The horse always fought barehanded. That was why even with his enormous body, he found himself chased down by a monstrous predator.
It was only natural to fear a wolf armed with claws and fangs.
"Don't be scared of a mere wolf."
Vesta said it again, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
"You've got me riding you, don't you?"
He was carrying a Bestiarius, after all. The Empire's finest beast-hunter would be fighting at his side.
So there was no need to be afraid, Vesta soothed.
Neigh—
He could feel the trembling in Gansinbae's body beginning to ebb. It flared back to life almost at once, but its nature had changed. This was not the shaking of fear.
When a warrior stands before battle. When fear has been conquered. The emotion that seizes and sets the whole body ablaze in that moment.
Vesta called it the thrill.
"Let's go, friend."
Via focused on intercepting arrows and reading the enemy's presence.
I alone must bear the arrows and the archer.
Her usual self would have trusted in her armor and simply charged. She might have abandoned the task of deflecting every shaft and hurled herself straight at the enemy.
Impossible. A blind arrow could be aimed at the Baatar.
That was why she was intercepting each arrow one by one.
They're dyed black. Hard to catch in one's vision, and they make almost no sound.
No human could have handled it.
Via was different. She was a centaur. Her night eyes were sharper than a human's, and her field of vision far wider. Even as she batted down each arrow, she was gauging the archer's position.
I saw the one stirring out there in the dark.
It was no mistake of a careless hunter. Only, as time passed, the darkness that had shrouded the creature's body was steadily receding.
An orc with silver fur.
A rare existence indeed. In orc society, where thirty years of life earned one the title of elder, it meant this one had survived to forty — perhaps even fifty.
But still.
"Countless have coveted my ears."
Take them if you can, orc. Go ahead and try.
Srrring—
"Yet no one of Altan-gerel has ever been laid to rest leaving only one ear behind."
Let's see whether you can wound that immortality.
Vesta wrenched the reins hard. Gansinbae veered aside in a hurry.
Whoosh—
The werewolf's claws raked across the leather covering Gansinbae's flank.
As big as it is, the threat is real.
Unlike a wolf, a werewolf could use its forelimbs freely. It was, for all practical purposes, a leopard.
Arrow!
Ting!
His vision flashed. Arrowhead met blade, and sparks scattered into the dark.
Their coordination is good.
Each was formidable in his own right — and they moved as a single body besides, which made them maddening to fight.
Karakh, bow drawn, shouted.
"Draw out your flames!"
Did he think Vesta was being stingy with his spirit blade? It was an absurd misunderstanding.
"Pour everything you have at me. Just as you did against Narinhoon Ibaatar!"
Karakh thrust out one arm, fully extended.
Grrrrk.
The werewolf shot past at his side, and Karakh snatched at the monster's reins with that outstretched arm.
The distance between Karakh and Vesta collapsed in an instant.
"Meet me head-on!"
Excited as he was, Gansinbae no longer feared the beast. He charged as if to smash his chest bone straight into the werewolf.
!
It was the wolf's side that flinched from the collision. The weight difference between horse and werewolf ran to several times over — and the creature had registered the impact that was about to follow.
Like some enormous ghost, the werewolf flung itself sideways, slipping past at a razor-thin angle.
The riders atop the two great beasts did not let that moment slip away either.
Karakh grabbed for Vesta's ankle to drag him from the saddle.
"Fine. Let's go down together."
"What—"
The instant his ankle was seized, Vesta's eyes flashed and he leapt backward off the horse. Realizing what Vesta intended, Karakh moved to withdraw his hand — but Vesta's fingers had already closed around his wrist.
In that falling moment, tangled together with Karakh, Vesta released his wrist to execute a breakfall — then drove his opposite foot into the hand gripping his ankle, kicking it free.
An acrobat's trick, possible only for a man raised in a circus troupe.
Karakh and Vesta both tumbled across the stony ground.
No injuries. The breakfall worked.
He had landed protecting his head and spine, after all. A few minor bruises, perhaps — but in this situation, such scratches meant nothing.
He rose quickly. Karakh, too, appeared to have escaped serious harm; he was standing upright once more.
Karakh spoke as though the whole thing defied belief.
"You misjudged."
Vesta did not answer.
"You should never have dismounted."
Fight on two feet, and the gaps in strength and build only grow more glaring, he said. It was certainly close to sound reasoning.
"I heard you brought Narinhoon down with a sword."
Karakh did not hesitate. He strode steadily closer to where Vesta stood.
"A mighty feat, yes. But that was before Narinhoon accepted the wolf."
A few more steps.
"You have no idea. What kind of being that man has become."
"Do I need to?"
Why should I fear him?
"Wh—"
Srrring—
Blood sprayed. A severed finger spun away into empty air.
"—"
When you're cut down from a distance you believed to be safe, the first thing you feel isn't pain. It's disbelief.
Good instincts. He pulled back at the last moment.
Had he not, Vesta would have carved through his throat.
"You wretch."
"You're no match for me."
With your skill, you cannot bring me down.
At those words, Karakh's face twisted.
"Even now, go back down to the highlands. Rally your wolves. Contain this mess, keep the blood from spilling — and climb to a true king's throne that way."
The words came out of Vesta's expressionless face — and what came back was pure fury.
"You daaaare!"
Karakh was a warrior too. He would have sensed it. That fighting with his feet planted on the ground, he could not beat Vesta.
A single sword strike had told him everything.
Me — beaten by this whelp?
[How foolish. Clinging to the outer shell.]
For some reason, Narinhoon's words rose unbidden in his memory.
The wind of the steppe does not bless the reckless fool.
"Shut — your — mouth!"
Karakh's eyes blazed. His roar rolled out like thunder, and the direction of the wind changed in an instant.
"...Spirit sorcery?"
It was different.
The shaman's blood sleeping in Karakh's veins — the blood of a High Orc — was manifesting. A catastrophic power, one even he himself had never been aware of, was surging loose.
Heat flared at Vesta's hip. Ashtien's blade, burning a furious crimson.
A spiritual force gathered at the tip of Karakh's sword.
Ku-gu-gu-gu-gung—
Karakh brought it down as if hurling the whole of it at once. Vesta felt an extraordinary wave of power rolling off that blade's edge.
He drew Ashtien's sword.
Flames roared upward.
"Elven spirit sorcery—"
The forces collided. The human body was far, far too frail to withstand that power.
Something was severed and went flying.
Thud. The object struck the ground. An arm cloaked in black fur — and it was still gripping its sword.
The flames died. All that remained was the bare steel of Ashtien's blade. There was little more great work that length of metal could do, but perhaps — perhaps — it would be enough to kill one orc.