Tanares' Legacy (1)
Owen Glendower
The orcs had been defeated.
They'd lost countless warriors in the Arcane Mountains and retreated right in front of Surpuk Duke and the dark elf queen.
All around lay the weapons they'd abandoned and the corpses of their comrades.
"As expected, those barbarians are utterly useless..."
The demon who had orchestrated this fiasco couldn't hide his contempt.
"I had high hopes for that Bargulgu brute given his reputation... what a waste."
His entire body was shrouded in a black robe, and he was unnaturally tall, exuding an eerie aura in all directions.
Slither.
He glided across the ground like a snake, leaving behind a trail of sticky fluid that withered the grass in his wake.
This demon's name was exceedingly complex and hard to pronounce—in Imperial tongue, it sounded something like Igdes Ptagun.
Of course, Igdes despised hearing his noble name mangled by the inferior speech of lesser races.
Demons considered themselves the greatest beings in existence.
The Empire's emperor.
The undead pharaoh of the deserts.
The great chieftain of the Eastern Plains' orcs.
The dark elf queen of the frozen lands.
They viewed every power in this world as mere pawns.
Of course, the dark elf queen had slipped from the demons' grasp.
Three schemes against her had failed, making her a major headache moving forward.
"Unexpected, isn't it? I dismissed her the most because of the curse..."
Among the rebel grand matrons, selecting a new queen was proving difficult due to legitimacy issues.
"Why do the affairs of these simple, lowly races tangle into such a web?"
Lost in these tangled thoughts, Igdes arrived at his destination.
The rear of the dark elf encampment.
Most of the troops had marched out to fight the orcs, leaving it relatively quiet.
Only a few remained to guard supplies and non-combatants.
"Who goes there? Halt!"
A few spotted the ghostly-moving Igdes and leveled their weapons.
But they collapsed without even a scream.
Igdes extended his hand forward, and tentacles shot from his sleeve, piercing their faces.
He encountered several more dark elf soldiers on the way, all meeting the same fate.
Pierce!
To him, even seasoned dark elf warriors were no more than ants underfoot.
"Here it is..."
Igdes soon reached a wide clearing.
There stood a tomb of unmelted ice.
The place where the dark elf queen had sealed the witch Kalania Budura.
"By not killing her, she handed me this opportunity..."
Igdes surmised why the dark elf queen hadn't executed the traitor.
She'd likely sealed her here to slowly drain her magic power.
The queen's strength was born from such cruel methods.
She'd disposed of many enemies this way before.
But there was one thing the dark elf queen didn't know.
That this vile, effective technique had been created by demons.
Power always comes at a price.
Igdes awaited the day that karmic balance would complete itself.
"There! Intruder!"
"Stop him!"
Then, over thirty dark elf warriors rushed in.
A bit too many to impale with tentacles.
"Annoying."
Igdes muttered indifferently and threw back his deeply hooded cowl.
A grotesque visage beyond words was revealed.
His face was covered in trumpet-like tentacles with holes at the tips. Between the writhing mass, crimson eyes glared forward.
It wasn't just hideous.
It instilled profound terror and madness in any who beheld it.
"Gahk!"
"Urk!"
The fierce dark elves froze like frogs before a snake.
Overwhelmed by dread, they trembled violently, some dropping to their knees.
A few foamed at the mouth and fainted.
"Hah! Hah!"
"What... is this! Grraaah!"
Breathing grew ragged; air wouldn't come.
Just being stared at by Igdes felt like a noose tightening around the throat.
"Vermin..."
Igdes ignored them and reached toward the ice tomb.
But he soon scowled.
Despite mustering great power, the seal wouldn't break.
"Impressive, Queen... You're surprising me."
Even Igdes hadn't anticipated the queen's power after lifting the curse.
As the dark elves around him descended into madness, he pondered.
"No choice. I'll just take it with me."
The witch Kalania was still a valuable card.
He couldn't let the queen drain her dry.
Rumble.
The ice tomb before him began to move.
Unable to melt it, he'd carry it off whole.
Layered ice sheets shifted aside, revealing the bottom slab sealing Kalania.
"What... do you intend... to do with me...?"
Even sealed, Kalania retained her wits and asked hoarsely.
"Who knows? Just using trash for trash work. Krhuhuhu..."
The demon extended tentacles to wrap the ice slab, then turned and dragged it away.
Screech. Creak.
The frozen Kalania couldn't budge as she was hauled off by the demon.
More warriors arrived at the commotion, but the demon had already melted into the night's darkness.
"A great victory, sir!"
Even at his knight's report, Betshel, elder of Bris, wore a grim expression.
Today's battle had been a dramatic turnaround.
The palisades had nearly collapsed, nearly dooming them, but everything reversed.
Now, cavalry with torches hunted the fleeing orcs.
With a gold coin promised per orc slain, they'd revel through the night.
Yet Betshel signaled for silence with a dark face.
"Ah..."
Only then did the knight grasp the situation and shut his mouth.
Screams echoed from nearby Surpuk Duke's tent.
"Aaaargh!"
It was unmistakably the duke's voice.
Since regaining consciousness after fainting, he'd been screaming nonstop.
"Your Grace! Steady yourself!"
"Your Grace! This is too much for your health!"
Surgeons clung to him, trying to calm him, but he was half-mad.
"Get lost! My head hurts!"
He even started hurling nearby cushions.
Everyone floundered, unsure how to handle the duke.
He'd been crushed under a falling pillar.
His helmet dented, but no major injuries.
Treatment had been prompt and proper.
Yet inexplicably, he raged over headaches.
The excruciating pain stripped away all dignity; he bellowed at vassals and doctors alike.
"What in the world is wrong with His Grace?"
Bobert Count anxiously asked the priest of light traveling with the army.
Priests with healing powers were exceedingly rare.
Only one had come this time.
He wiped streaming cold sweat, genuinely baffled.
"Hmm... His Grace shows concussion symptoms, which I've already treated. Why the pain persists, I don't..."
"Priest! If even you don't know, who does?!"
"No, it's just..."
The priest was equally perplexed.
As the East's top power, he'd given his all.
Exhausted from exertion, yet the duke still complained.
Not malingering—what was the issue?
"Aaaargh! I want to split my skull with an axe right now. No! Saw my head open!"
The agony had driven Surpuk Duke to lose reason.
Eminent doctors swarmed, but he flung away the herbal brews.
"Scram!"
"Your Grace! Please! Take the medicine."
"It's useless! Are you trying to burst my gut and kill me?!"
Then a new figure arrived.
"Sir Owen Leire here to report."
Bobert naturally refused.
"Tell him later!"
Even mild-mannered Bobert bristled at the lack of tact.
Yet the man wouldn't back down.
"Well... Sir Leire insists on delivering it personally. He heard of Your Grace's headache. He's not certain, but says he might be able to cure it..."
"What?"
Owen had heard of Surpuk Duke's condition upon return.
A splitting headache leaving him delirious.
It immediately rang a bell.
His past-life Surpuk Duke had suffered similarly.
Back then, the duke had confided only in Owen his shameful past.
He couldn't tell subordinates, but Glendower was a comrade-in-arms.
'Must be from Bargulgu. It's become a mental scar.'
Owen was certain the duke's pain was psychological, not physical.
A headache from acute stress.
Thus, he could surely heal it.
So Owen persistently sought an audience.
"Hmm..."
Bobert hesitated.
He knew Owen wasn't one for empty talk, but how could he cure a headache?
Reading the mood, nearby elder Betshel spoke.
"Just let him in. We're grasping at straws now."
"You're right, elder."
Bobert nodded and summoned Owen.
But he startled at what Owen carried.
"What is that?"
"A miracle cure to soothe Your Grace's mind."
"You're carrying something ominous and spouting nonsense."
Shouts still erupted from the tent.
Attending doctors screamed.
"Stop His Grace! He's attempting self-harm!"
With the chaos, Owen rushed inside.
Doctors lay sprawled, overpowered by the strong duke.
He wielded a dagger at his own head; knights grappled desperately.
"Urgh! Your Grace! Steady!"
"I said withdraw!"
It was pandemonium.
Owen approached swiftly and knelt.
"Your Grace! Owen Leire here to report our victory!"
Back came curses.
"You damned fool! Think I don't know that? Shut up!"
Surpuk Duke's whites were bloodshot.
Bursts of red where vessels had ruptured.
Owen offered no excuses, presenting his burden reverently with both hands, like a tribute.
"What the—!"
The duke paused in disbelief.
Owen held a severed orc arm.
But shock was fleeting.
He thrust the dagger forward in fury.
"You dare mock me?!"
"No, Your Grace. Behold the tattoo on this arm."
"What?!"
Poised to stab Owen, the duke froze.
Forgetting his pain momentarily, he examined the severed arm intently.
A massive, muscled arm.
Covered in familiar skull tattoos.
"Ah..."
A memory surfaced for the aged duke.
Thirty years ago, the brutal arm slashing his belly.
It bore the same skull tattoos.
His fingers trembled as he pointed at the arm.
"Owen... you brat. Is this...?"
"Yes, Your Grace. Bargulgu's arm. I severed it for you."
"What?!"
Astounded, the duke dropped his dagger, eyes bulging.
Finally, he spoke.
"...What of Bargulgu?"
"Grenville took his arm, and he fled."
"...Is that true?"
"Yes, Your Grace. He fled howling like a dog."
The duke's white beard quivered at the answer.
Proud Bargulgu had lost his prized right arm.
Uncontainable glee lit the old man's face.
Owen proffered the arm again.
"Your Grace. Will you accept it?"
The duke dazedly took it.
The battle-hardened warrior's limb was filthy heavy.
How much resolve and valor infused this flesh?
The duke marveled unconsciously.
'Swinging swords countless times to hone skill. And now it's lost!'
His body shook; he began laughing like a madman.
"Kuhahaha! Hahaha!"
Surrounding gasps of shock.
"Your Grace?"
"Your Grace! Are you alright?"
Ignoring his retainers, tears streamed as he laughed.
"Uhahaha! Haha!"
His belly ached, but he couldn't stop.
He slapped his knee, doubled over, wheezing.
Surgeons and knights watched in bewilderment.
Only Owen understood the duke's trauma.
"Kahaha! Uhaha!"
The duke laughed long.
Then realized something.
"Ah...!"
Sometime amid it, the headache had vanished completely.
No trace of even minor pain, as if never there.
"Heh!"
Chuffing, the duke beckoned forward.
"Rise."
"Yes, Your Grace."
As Owen stood, the duke pulled him into a fierce embrace and whispered.
"Well done. You little bastard."