As the night grew darker, the wind cooled down but Warchief barely noticed. Running over the dust-covered earth, his inner fire blazed in exhilaration as he tracked down his prey.
Eyes flickering over the ground, he found hints of footprints, trampled grass, and snapped branches that marked the path straight to them.
Another would have struggled to do so. The shifting sands and lack of light, making the tracks almost invisible. However, ever since his awakening as a Prince of Elves, day and night had become one and the same. His eyes adapting easily and brightening the landscape as needed.
As the footprints became more defined, his feet picked up the pace unconsciously. Knowing he was drawing closer.
Keeping his eyes on the far-off distance, he finally spotted several flickering lights. Campfires.
There you are.
Coming to a full stop, he patted himself down to ensure his two hidden daggers were in place and unsheathed his swords from their scabbards which he left hanging on his back. That done, he crept closer using the shadows to his advantage.
Ulakian voices drifted in the air. Shouting and laughing, as they enjoyed supper after a long day of marching through the unbearable heat. None seemed concerned about a possible attack, and Warchief didn’t blame them.
There were few foolish enough to attack a slave caravan of their size. Especially this deep into Durgh’ras.
He halted when he was less than three hundred feet away. Close enough to study the encampment, while staying unnoticed.
Five campfires were arranged in a circle, surrounding the small tents that would harbor the orcs during the night. A wooden post towered over them. Its presence marking the place where they had chained up the slaves.
Looking back at the fires, he counted ten Ulak at each but for one which seated eleven. Presumably, each was shared by one tábrod. The smallest unit within the orcish forces.
Seeing them up close, he realized this slaver's party must be a particularly successful one.
Their attires consisted of the typical loose trousers, adorned with a wide fitted belt that covered most of their waists, and a baltrum. A long piece of cloth, often worn over one shoulder but which could be draped over both as some sort of cape.
But rather than being made of leather, as with most slavers, their clothes seemed to consist of a more prized material like cotton, colored in bright hues of yellow and burned orange.
At the fire seating eleven Ulak, one orc even wore a striking bright red, which contrasted fiercely with the broad golden necklace he wore around his neck. There was no mistaking who the foreman of the group was.
Even while sitting, he represented an intimidating figure. Plenty of scars littered his bare upper body, showing off his experience, and a giant club leaned up beside him. One Warchief would never be able to lift, never mind use as a weapon.
One man against fifty-one well-trained orcs. Lidea would have called it a suicidal endeavor, and Crystal would have started to drag him back by the ears. But Warchief had won against worse odds, and he wasn’t willing to leave those slaves to their fates.
Nervous energy flitted throughout him, and he rolled his shoulders in preparation for what he was about to do. His grin grew wider in excitement.
Extending his hands forward, he focused on the campfire that was the farthest away. The energy within him, raced towards his fingertips when his intentions grew clear. As the fire sparked along his skin, he was quick to divert the energy away. Sending it across the settlement to feed the flames.
The seated Ulaks jumped up, rattled by the sudden flare-up and quick to try and smother the sparks. Not yet realizing, that something unnatural was afoot.
With another magical push, sparks flew and landed in the dry grass around the camp. Instantly they ignited, and as the parched blades were devoured, the fire raced hungrily across the landscape, leaping from patch to patch. In mere moments, flames swept across the camp with alarming speed.
“What are you doing, you shiftless slugs!? Extinguish it!”
The harsh tones of the foreman’s command sounded over the camp. The clipped sound of the Ulakian language, helped it to carry over the mayhem of panicked voices.
Rather than worried, he sounded annoyed. Seemingly agitated by his men’s inability to solve such a simple issue.
As the fire had grown to a blazing inferno, and the attention of all orcs was turned to the flames, he knew that his time had come. With his blades in hands, he sneaked past the campfire closest to him, to disappear moments later between a cluster of tents.
Once out of sight, he broke out in a run toward the wooden pole that had become his beacon. In his carelessness, he ran into one of the slavers who was startled by the intruder's presence. But before he had a chance to yell out a warning, his voice was reduced to gurgles, as Warchief’s dagger had dug deep into his throat.
He grabbed the feet of the lifeless body and dragged it inside one of the empty tents. Hoping his body wouldn’t be discovered anytime soon.
The longer the Ulak were unaware of his presence, the better his chance was at succeeding.
Hurrying up, he reached the center of the camp where the pole stood. Small huddles of slaves were strewn about, their iron collars chained to the wood.
Wide eyes followed him as he ran straight to the post and pulled on the chains. He tested their resilience but rapidly realized that he wouldn’t be able to simply break them.
Instead, his eyes glanced at the post itself. He could use fire to burn it, but that would draw the attention of every orc in the vicinity.
The old-fashioned way it is.
“I am here to help. Just be ready to run. After I free you, you are on your own.”
He spoke in Lynoen to convey that he wasn’t from Durgh’ras, and in the hope that most of the slaves were familiar with the common trading language.
Some of their eyes sparked with hope or determination, some even nodding at him in understanding. Their reactions fed him with the conviction that he had made the right decision.
Lifting his right blade, he hacked at the post. The sound of his precious sword hitting the wood, made him cringe and he promised himself, that he would sharpen and oil his shamshirs properly after he returned.
Wiping the sweat of his brow, he continued chopping away. Almost getting through when finally a voice sounded.
“There is an intruder!”
Someone must have found the body. He glanced around but saw no orcs near him yet. Probably they were all still where the inferno was blazing. It wouldn’t be that way for long though.
With his cover blown, he hacked his sword into the post one last time. Letting the steel bite deeply into the wood before igniting the blade.
Within moments, the pole turned into a pillar of fire, and some of the slaves screamed as they tried to back off as much as they could.
“I will hold them off as long as I can. Run when you get the chance!”
He shouted as he could already see some orcs running his way. Attracted to his position by the pillar of light behind him.
“Towards the slaves!”
A voice echoed out, but Warchief couldn’t pay any attention as an axe came down upon him. He managed to dodge the mass of steel, using the created opening to stab his sword into the orc’s armpit. Before he could rejoice in his victory, another took his opponent's place as more orcs were drawn to his position.
Using his speed and agility to his advantage, he avoided most of their attacks. Only countering when their weak spots were presented to him.
Breathing heavily, he threw a dagger in an Ulak’s eye, just to have its colleague jump over his body and attack him with another axe. With no time to dodge, he used his two blades to block the attack crosswise, causing the Ulak’s eyes to widen in astonishment before Warchief kicked him in the balls.
It occurred to him momentarily, that another would feel fear in his situation. But he didn’t. For him, such an unfair fight was a mere thrill that fanned the flames inside him.
Be careful of fire magicians, Draenai. They are born to be violent.
His mother’s voice echoed through his mind, as he beheaded the orc and moved on to the next.
“Vermin! Go throw sand on those flames. I will handle this one.”
The rough voice of the foreman sounded somewhere off to his side, and immediately the other orcs backed away. Giving Warchief a breather, as the giant Ulak he had seen before stepped up. His poisonous green eyes glared at him with unbridled fury as he lifted his giant club with one hand.
“You are my prey now.”
His face contorted in a too-gleeful grin. The love for cruelty showed through his features as he swung the club towards him.
Warchief hastened to create more space and stay out of reach, but the foreman didn’t let him. Following his every step, as he attacked him with uncanny speed.
He couldn’t do much more than keep avoiding his attacks. Knowing that being hit would mean certain death. That was until he observed the Ulak’s golden necklace which gleamed in the orange light of the still burning pole, that had turned into a mere pile of rubble.
Still avoiding the maddened orc’s attacks, he started moving towards the fire. Knowing his opponent was too consumed by rage to notice his intentions.
Once he got into position, he stood still a tad longer than he should have. The foreman lunched towards him. But Warchief had expected him to do so and sidestepped at the last moment. Letting him ram into the fire and using more of his energy to fan the flames hotter.
An agonizing scream came from his opponent but Warchief didn’t care. Looking around, he noticed most of the slaves had disappeared, making him grin.
Seems like it is time to go back.
“I have to thank you for sending your underlings away. That helped …”
Warchief’s words paused as his sixth sense tingled. Immediately he ducked and rolled, but this time the club grazed him. Throwing him to the ground with such force that he gasped for air.
His eyes met the green gaze of the foreman as he lifted his club once more. His body moving as if it wasn’t covered in burns.
It had been foolish to turn his back on an opponent without confirming his death.
As the club came down, he was filled with an explosion of pain, followed by darkness.
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Warchief awoke to the most excruciating headache that he had ever experienced. For a while, it was all he could notice as slowly the events that led him here, came back to him.
How long had he been out?
He could feel heat searing his skin, so morning must have passed. But for some reason he felt cold, his body shivering uncontrollably. Instinctively he grasped for the fire within to warm him, but all he accomplished was to send a wave of nausea through his body which he couldn’t ignore.
He started heaving, and the orc that had been carrying him over his shoulder, stopped without hesitation to drop him to the ground.
Warchief grunted in pain and almost threw up all over himself, but he managed to just turn his head to the side.
Laughter rang from around him as someone spoke in Ulakian but Warchief wasn’t enough by his senses to hear, let stand comprehend what the man had said. Instead, he tried to recover from the nausea before losing even more of what little had been in his stomach.
A shadow fell over him and he looked up. Squinting his eyes in pain, as his gaze met those of the foreman. The orc was completely wrapped in bandages, his skin too badly damaged to survive the Durgh’ras sun.
“Seems like the little half-wit finally woke up. How did you like the bite of my club?”
The words translated slowly in Warchief’s sluggish mind, as he took in the Ulak’s smug grin. Without thinking, he hawked up phlegm and spat it in his direction.
It didn’t land anywhere near the foreman but still, he growled in anger.
“Seems like the no-orc has not yet lost his teeth. Let’s see how long that will last.”
The remark startled Warchief. Not many observed the orcish blood he carried. After all, his appearance showed no signs of it. But somehow this orc had figured it out.
The foreman noticed his expression but turned to the orc who had been carrying him, without mentioning anything.
“He will walk. The savanna will teach him manners.”
With those words, the caravan started to move again and Warchief was pulled to his feet by the iron collar around his neck. A wave of dizziness threatened to make him hurl again, but thankfully it staved off as he focused on setting forward one foot after the other.
A tug on his chain, almost made him stumble and he threw a venomous glare at the orc that held his chain but he merely grunted as he tugged again. Letting Warchief know that he was too slow.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to go faster. Almost stumbling due to the short chain connecting his ankles. He couldn’t fall, if he did, they would simply continue to drag his body over the ground.
The last thing he needed, was to be injured further.
Checking up on himself, his injuries seemed to be limited. His head being the worst, although Warchief was surprised that he had survived the blow at all.
It must have been the orc’s intention to keep him alive. Not surprising, after he had lost a substantial amount of the slaves he had brought. A fire magician like him could catch a fair price on the markets.
Looking at his wrists, he studied the cuffs he was wearing. Red symbols softly glowed, the magic within fueled by the energy that leaked out of him. No wonder he was feeling exhausted.
I should have listened to them.
His mind wandered to Crystal and Lidea, making him wonder what they were doing now. They must have realized that he wasn’t returning, so he suspected that they were stalking the caravan.
He knew better than to think that either woman would leave him to his fate. The question was, how they could break him out.
Still, he knew that they would try, so it was best for him to behave and let himself recover as he awaited an opportunity to escape.
That was what he kept telling himself as he spent the next few days walking endlessly through the scorching sands, only to sleep on the cold hard ground with nothing to protect him from the elements. Luckily, his headache was dying down, but his body continued to feel feverish. A side effect of the magic-depleting cuffs.
Gruel splattered on the ground beside him, as he looked up to the foreman holding the bowl that he had just tipped out.
“Eat.”
The orc stared him down. He enjoyed seeing Warchief grovel, and though he wanted to protest. To not give the orc what he wanted. He knew that it would only be himself who would suffer the consequences.
So instead, he cupped his hand around the soggy grain and poured it into his mouth. Sand gritting between his teeth.
Those uncanny green eyes didn’t leave his body, as he kept staring. Warchief wondered why the foreman seemed fascinated by him. Although, something told him he might not want to know.
“Allia. I’m sure of it now, you are that tramp's brat.”
Warchief stilled as he heard his mother's name coming from the foreman’s mouth.
“Look at that reaction. Who would have thought that her son would end up in my hands. I still have her pretty teeth marks on my neck.”
The foreman pointed to where an ugly scare peeked from underneath the bandages around his shoulder.
His mother’s orc fangs had been removed after she had dared to bite one of her patrons.
“You knew her?”
Warchief hated how hesitant he sounded but the foreman’s admission had rattled him more than he was willing to admit. Reminding him of what his mother had gone through at the hands of so many men. This man being one of them.
Anger pushed his magic to overflow, but all it did, was to cause him to feel even weaker.
“Who do you think that pulled out those fangs of hers? How funny that her son would be the one to give me even more scars.”
“I’m glad.”
Warchief shot back. Glee dripped from his words, at the revenge he had gathered for his mother’s sake.
“Still feisty. I thought the sun would have tamed you by now. I should have known better. She was like that too. It is why I sold her to that man. He was known to train his playthings well. Enjoyed whipping, and burning them.”
He had been staring down those green eyes, but his breath caught at the new revelation. Fear ran through him at what the orc was insinuating.
“You look so much like him. It must have pained her to raise you.”
Ice ran through his veins as he thought of the violent man that had sired him.
“I will contact him when we are back. His tastes are perverse. It wouldn’t surprise me if he made you take your mother’s place.”
The orc started laughing in his face but Warchief didn’t care. All he wanted, was for him to stop talking.
Hatred for the blood he carried mixed with pure fear, made him jump up and hook the chains that bound his wrists, around the orc’s neck.
The foreman stumbled, losing balance at the weight that had suddenly attacked him. But he easily peeled Warchief from his body. Planting a fist in his stomach so he went down.
Laying on the ground, the Ulak didn’t stop. He kept on kicking and hitting him until Warchief could no longer move.
“Learn your place, slave. Or your life will only become harder.”
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With his body broken and bruised, he shuffled into the slave collection camp and towards the cage that would become his new home for the time being. Warchief knew that he needed to escape, to leave before they locked him in, but the foreman’s words haunted him.
If he stayed, he might meet the man that had sired him. The one that had tortured his mother until even sleep couldn’t give her peace.
Warchief would finish him. Avenge his mother for the misfortune he had brought her. It was the least that he could do.
As he pondered, the faces of his comrades appeared in his mind.
He hadn’t seen any sign of them yet, and he started to wonder if he had been wrong. Lidea might have decided that chasing him down would be a waste of time, or maybe, Crystal finally had enough of his antics. Either way, he understood.
Reaching the cage, the orc holding his chain pushed him inside before locking the gate behind him.
He didn’t retaliate, only grunting in discomfort as he gingerly shifted into an upright position. Though most of the pain had ebbed away, his muscles felt stiff and his skin was still tender, plum-colored bruises mottling his whole body. From the reactions of those passing by his cage, he gathered that he looked like shit.
At least, that would delay his auction. The pen masters knew his price would be higher if he looked to be in decent shape.
The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth as he watched his surroundings.
His prison was but one in a line of many, though most slaves had to share quarters. Probably, they found him too dangerous to be kept with others even while cuffed.
The cages were set up in the middle of the encampment. This one with bigger tents than the slave caravan had used. Giving him the idea that they were meant to be a more permanent settlement.
Ulaks sauntered by, throwing curious glances and studying some of the slaves before noting down numbers. Making sure that they knew their favorites before the auction started.
All of them would be merchants, buying up the freshly caught slaves to train them and then resell them on one of the bigger slave markets around the country. The training itself was a horrendous practice in which they would break your body and soul. Force you to become pliable to any of their desires or whims.
Never get close to the slavers, you hear me?
His mother’s warning whispered in his mind. She had been scarred by her time in Durgh’ras, to the point that she had become paranoid about Warchief being captured by them.
He could only imagine how much she must have suffered. Although, if he didn’t leave, he might get a taste of it soon enough.
A bowl of gruel was shoved towards him through the opening at the bottom of the cage. The orc delivering it barely glanced his way before moving on to the next.
Despite the food looking far from appetizing, his stomach growled and he picked up the bowl, only to stall as he brought it to his lips. A faint smell warned him of what was to come if he ate it.
They did follow me.
A mixture of relief and anxiety filled him as he poured the contents of the bow out onto the sand. If he left, he might never get the chance to meet the man who fathered him. He would continue to walk free with no punishment for what he had done to his mother.
However, the growing Pleberien religion was a more urgent problem. One that would affect all magical races and magic users.
How could he even consider placing his mother's revenge above that?
It didn’t take long for the telltale signs of Crystal’s poison to make itself known. A passerby stopped and hurled not far away from him. Other orcs gave him disapproving glances as they walked by.
But he wouldn’t be the only one. Soon he was surrounded by people who sounded sick, be it that they were feverish, throwing up, or had a nasty case of the runs.
They suspected that something out of the kitchen had been off. Discussed if it had been the scorpion meat or the cactus juice. None suspected it to be poison.
Looking around, he wondered how she had managed to sneak in here without being seen, but then that was Crystal’s specialty.
It took another day for the supposed illness to really take hold, as the camp looked almost deserted with how many were hiding in their tents.
Staving off the hunger, he stared at his hands as he waited until a shadow fell over him. Looking up, he met Lidea’s steel grey gaze which was tinted with a blend of anger and concern.
“We are going to have a good talk, once we are out of here.”
She hissed through gritted teeth. Checking over her shoulder one last time, before taking out a key ring and opening the lock of his cage.
“I didn’t expect any less.”
He admitted with a smile. His happiness at seeing her, betraying how fearful he had been of the situation. Even if he had never even realized it himself.
His comment earned him another glare as she studied his face quickly before trying the keys on his cuffs. Slowly freeing him from his shackles, and finally ending his shivering as energy was no longer sapped away.
“Where is Crystal?”
He knew the half-demon wouldn’t have let Lidea do this on her own.
“She is getting your swords. Can you walk?”
Warchief nodded, gritting his teeth to make his unwilling muscles move and get up to his feet. He wasn’t yet up, or Lidea wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Carrying almost his entire weight as they left the cage. With a deep sigh of relief, he leaned on her. The tension that had kept him going these past days, seemed to leave his body now that she was here.
“What did they do to you?”
A deep concern laced her words, as his stiff movements must have betrayed the pain he was still in.
“I got a beating. Nothing that won’t heal.”
“They must have beaten you until an inch of your life.”
She spat her anger on his behalf jarring him. Besides Crystal, there weren’t many who concerned themselves with his well-being.
“I knew it had to do something with you!”
A harsh voice bellowed in Ulakian, and Warchief spotted the green-eyed foreman storming toward them.
“Of course, it was going too smoothly.”
Lidea muttered, her annoyance almost making him chuckle as she gently lowered him to the ground.
“Don’t move.”
She ordered, giving him one last glare for good measure, before pulling out her demon steel sword and taking her stance.
The orc paused, sizing her up for a moment before erupting in laughter.
"What are you going to do with that toothpick, little girl?"
Though Warchief couldn’t see Lidea’s face, her stiffened shoulders told him she grasped the insult, despite not knowing the language. Not surprising, as she likely endured the same type of condescension countless times since she first entered a battlefield.
It was almost laughable how blind these warriors were, too lost in their fragile pride to recognize the threat before them.
Lidea didn’t hesitate, easily avoiding the orc’s grabbing hands and slicing through his thigh as if it were a ripe fruit.
The foreman collapsed, staring incredulously at the severed limb on the ground. Not yet grasping what had happened to him. But as the pain hit, his howl of horror filled the air.
Lidea stood over the writhing orc, her expression cold and detached. Her gaze flicked to Warchief, her eyes hovering over his face. Whatever she saw, re-ignited the anger in her steel-colored eyes.
With a swift, precise motion, she severed the thick cords of muscle in his neck, silencing him.
Gone was the orc that had maimed his mother, and who could have helped him find the one that had tortured her. Any valuable knowledge forever lost with him.
Unexpectedly, he didn’t mourn the loss. As he couldn’t take his eyes off Lidea.
Her braid swayed in the breeze, blood splattered across her body and sword. Using her sleeve, she wiped the precious blade clean, staining the fabric with crimson.
There was no trace of remorse or regret in her eyes.
Her scarred face only enhancing her look of ruthlessness as she approached him.
He should feel apprehensive at this side of her, but instead, an unfamiliar thrill coursed through him.
"And here I thought I'd get to play hero for once. But you’ve already killed him!"
Crystal’s teasing voice snapped Warchief out of his spellbound daze as Lidea hauled him back to his feet.
Crystal approached with his shamshir blades in hand, as Lidea rolled her eyes.
"I can handle at least one orc, you know. You did most of the dangerous work anyway."
"I know that. But I didn’t get to look awesome in front of Warchief. You should’ve seen him gaping at you."
Crystal retorted with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Warchief felt his face flush, silently praying for her to drop the subject. Knowing full well that she wouldn’t.
"Oh, hush. He’s half-dead and starving. I’d be staring too."
For how smart Lidea was, she was the densest person he had ever met, and at that moment he was glad for it.
“Believe what you will.”
Crystal shot back with her signature catlike grin, but Lidea didn’t rise to the bait.
“I see you got the swords. Did you get the slaves out?”
“Of course. They’re outside the camp now, with instructions on how to reach the nearest border and ask for help.”
As Warchief listened to them debrief their well-orchestrated plan, it only made him more aware of how reckless his own attack had been.
“Good. So now we wait for the show.”
Before Warchief could ask what she meant, a deafening explosion rocked the camp, followed by several more in rapid succession, and the screaming of orcs.
They stood, watching the chaos unfold, as Crystal explained unprompted.
"While looking for you, Lidea found gunpowder. We thought it should be… fairly distributed."
Her grin widened as she watched the destruction, clearly pleased with the results.
“The slaves are free, and the orcs destroyed. No running away this time. Understood?”
Lidea ordered. The venom in her words, made him realize that he wasn’t out of the woods yet. Though Crystal might be quick to forgive, Lidea was a very different case.
“I’m sorr…”
He didn’t get a chance to finish his words as Lidea cut him off.
“I don’t need your false apologies or fake excuses. Do not do this again.”
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