Micky Carre
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Dragon Riders of Etrea—Chapter 25
🕑 Added 2024-07-26 13:36:29 +0000 UTCHenrik walked out of the tent with his head high. The orcs had formed into a loose circle, and Yakha stood in the center with his sword in hand.
Tobias and Rasud stood on one side of the circle. Tobias had his shield ready, and Rasud had that look in his eyes that said he was only seconds away from burning the entire camp down. The witchman’s gaze fell on Shel and he winked at her. Henrik heard her laugh behind him.
“There he is,” Yakha said, pointing at Henrik with his thick-bladed sword. “The human that thinks he can beat me.” His laugh was loud and long, and the rest of the orcs joined in.
Henrik stretched his neck to each side as he stepped into the circle. He swung his sword in a few lazy circles to warm up his muscles.
“Oh, twirling his sword, very nice,” Yakha said in mocking tones. “Have you even tasted real battle, boy? I’ll wager I was putting men in the ground when you were still sucking on your whore mother’s teat.”
“Whenever you’re done talking, I’d like to start the fight,” Henrik said, refusing to take the bait.
Yakha roared to his companions and beat on his massive chest with ham-sized fists. The crowd cheered his name and he held his arms high while turning in a circle.
Tobias and Rasud remained in place. Tobias held his shield in front of him and kept his hand on his sword hilt like he expected the orcs to attack him at any moment. Rasud alternated between threatening to set people on fire and flashing smiles at Shel.
“Are you so eager to die, whelp?” Yakha asked, finally turning to face Henrik. The orc was confident, that much was certain. Henrik simply ignored his taunts.
“Let’s end this foolishness,” the orc growled, and swung his blade.
He moved with surprising speed, and the kind of accuracy that came from years of experience. Henrik brought his sword up at an angle, deflecting the blow that would have taken his head, and his lightning-fast riposte nearly slashed Yakha across the face.
The massive orc took a step back, his face a mask of surprise. That shock quickly turned to focused anger, and he brought his sword back up. He stepped closer to Henrik, working with a two-handed grip now.
Now that he knew to take Henrik seriously, he lashed out with fast blows to test Henrik’s speed. Henrik met each one with ease, turning them aside harmlessly. Yakha’s brows drew down when he realized he was facing a skilled opponent.
Henrik stayed on the defensive for the first few minutes, letting the massive orc burn off some of his energy. The orc was clearly a highly skilled fighter, but his style was a bit wild and relied on brute force. He knew almost no one could stand against him, so he focused on overpowering his opponent as quickly as possible.
But Henrik was a veteran of more battles than most soldiers twice his age. He knew how to be patient, how to wait for an opening. When Yakha overextended himself just slightly while trying to slice Henrik’s face off, Henrik moved it and slid the tip of his blade along the back of Yakha’s shoulder.
The orc roared in anger and redoubled his efforts. Henrik allowed himself to be driven backward in a circle and focused on parrying the big orc’s attacks.
At one point, a smaller orc took a step towards them with a dagger held low in his hand. His eyes focused on Henrik, but he suddenly screamed in pain as fire erupted from his hand.
“Don’t even fucking think about it!” Rasud shouted. “If anyone else feels like cheating, I’ll set them on fire as well.”
Yakha took a quick step back and disengaged from the battle. Henrik lowered his sword, showing he allowed it.
“You dare to take my honor?” Yakha shouted at the smaller orc, who writhed on the ground, clutching a hand that had been charred black. “You dare to take this kill from me?” He rammed his blade into the other orc’s stomach, twisted, and pulled it free. The other orcs took a step back, and Yakha spat on the dying man.
Henrik waited patiently for the other man. Yakha recognized this and stared at Henrik for a moment.
“You fight with honor,” Yakha said. “I will take great pride in killing you today, and will remember your name.”
Henrik knew enough about orcs to know that Yakha meant it as a great compliment. He simply replied with a nod.
Yakha took a few breaths, then raised his sword again. Blood oozed from several shallow cuts on his body, but it wasn’t enough to slow him. He eyed Henrik the way a man would watch a lion.
Yakha suddenly rushed forward, putting his entire weight behind a savage chop at Henrik’s neck. Henrik brought his sword up and parried. He tried to score a line across the orc’s chest, but Yakha’s sword was there again. The orc was taking things more seriously now that he realized he faced a truly deadly opponent.
Henrik knew he could beat Yakha, but he also knew he had to put on a show in order to intimidate the rest of the orcs. His plan was to wear the big man down, then kill him in the most savage way possible. Strength was about the only thing the orcs truly respected.
Henrik allowed himself to be driven backward in a circle. Each time the big orc attacked, Henrik parried and managed to land a slice somewhere. Blood loss would slow Yakha in a matter of minutes. As Henrik stepped back, orcs shouted curses and threats. Some of them were nearly close enough to touch him, but he was only able to focus on Yakha.
He brought his sword up and parried another brutal chop from the huge orc, then moved to swipe the tip of his sword right across Yakha’s face. Sharp pain blossomed in the back of his right thigh, causing him to stumble. Orcs snickered behind him.
Henrik threw himself to the ground and rolled on his shoulder, then sprang back to his feet. One of those fucking bastards had slipped a dagger into the back of his thigh. He felt hot anger boiling in his veins.
As soon as he was back on his feet he met a barrage of Yakha’s attacks. The orc knew Henrik was injured; he didn’t seem to be so angry about someone stealing his glory now. Perhaps because he knew Henrik would beat him otherwise. Blood streamed from a dozen wounds on the orc’s face and body.
Yakha charged forward, putting all of his strength behind a landslide attack. Henrik parried and dodged, then shouted in anger as another dagger went into the back of his leg. This time he stumbled, and that was all Yakha needed. He rammed his thick-bladed sword right into Henrik’s stomach.
Yakha grinned darkly as he began to twist the blade. The circle of orcs shouted and cheered. Rasud looked horrified, and Tobias was readying his own sword.
Henrik gasped at the searing pain in his gut. Before he could do anything about it, Yakha’s massive boot slammed into his chest, sending him flying backwards. It was a testament to the orc’s strength that he could move Henrik that way.
“Fucking shit,” Henrik growled as he hit the ground. The pain in his stomach blurred his thoughts, but he felt his anger rising like lava in a volcano. Those fucking orcs cheated.
Yakha thrust his thick arms over his head and roared to the crowd. The other orcs beat their gauntleted fists against their chest or slammed weapons against shields, anything to make a racket. “Finish him, finish him!” they chanted. Tobias looked ready to be sick. Rasud looked ready for murder.
A dark presence took over Henrik, and the pain in his stomach faded until it was like another man’s pain. He felt his face twist into a scowl as his eyes focused on Yakha, who was still celebrating. His entire body tingled and he felt like a passenger in his own mind.
“Oh shit,” Rasud said, his eyes on Henrik. “Tobias, be ready. Things are about to get really ugly.”
Tobias glanced around, waiting for an orc to attack. The man looked ready to fight to the death. He also looked ready to piss himself.
Henrik pushed himself to his feet, dragging his sword with him. His vision sharpened and his heart pounded in his chest. Many of the orcs stopped their cheering when they saw him rise. Yakha finally lowered his fists and turned to watch Henrik.
“So, you’ve still got some fight in you,” he said, bringing his sword back up. “I will take great pride in cutting your head off.”
He rushed in like an avalanche, but this time Henrik met every attack with ease. He parried the orc’s swings with such force that he stopped Yakha’s advance and drove him back.
Yakha stepped to the side, trying to drive Henrik back against the circle of orcs again. Henrik refused to be driven back.
Instead, Henrik rushed in, his blade a blur. The orc tried everything possible to parry and move, but he wasn’t nearly fast enough. After only a matter of seconds, half a dozen bloody gashes leaked his life onto the hard ground.
Yakha brought his sword around, putting all of his strength into a blow aimed right at Henrik’s neck. The amount of force he put into the attack would have staggered any other man.
Henrik dipped beneath it, then ran the edge of his blade along the inside of the orc’s arm, right to the bone. Yakha shouted in surprise as his sword fell from a suddenly numb hand.
Henrik dropped his own sword and rushed in, stepping on the orc’s boot and slamming his forehead into the orc’s face. The orc spluttered, and Henrik grabbed the front of his tunic, then used it to slam his head into the orc’s face a second time. The orc crashed to the ground like two hundred pounds of meat.
Henrik moved on top of the orc and brought his mighty fist up while his other hand gripped the orc’s thick neck like a vise. He slammed it into the orc’s already flat nose, crushing it to the side. A second blow turned the orc’s nose into little more than a splatter of blood. Both of his hands went to the orc’s face and he drove his thumbs into the orc’s eyes, ignoring the hands that beat at him.
Ragged fingernails dragged down Henrik’s cheeks, opening bloody rents in his skin. He drew his head back, keeping the fingers from his eyes, and bared his teeth in something that might have been a smile. The pain in his face only served to heighten his anger. He rammed his fingers all the way to the back of the orc’s eye sockets, then used his grip to slam the back of the orc’s head against the ground.
The crowd had gone completely silent by that time, but Henrik had no care for crowds. He lived for the kill, the feeling of tearing life from his foes. He slammed the back of the orc’s head against the hard ground again and again, until a pool of red around it soaked the ground and the orc went limp. Henrik hit Yakha’s head one last time, feeling it split.
He stood up and grabbed the orc’s sword. It was thick and heavy, but well made. Turning, Henrik saw the orc that had stabbed him in the back of the thigh. He took two steps toward the orc, drew the sword back over his head, and flung it forward.
It whirled through the air, catching the orc completely off guard. No one expected a man to throw a sword, especially one that size. The orc scrambled backward, but someone was behind him and in his way. The blade slammed into his shoulder, right at the base of his neck. Dark blood sprayed across the orcs standing next to him.
Henrik retrieved his sword from the ground and looked around the circle. “Where is the other son of a whore that stabbed me in the leg?” he roared. None of them answered. “Fine. I’ll just have to kill every one of you, then.” He raised his sword and walked toward the nearest orcs.
“Henrik!” a voice shouted. “Take a deep breath, Henrik! The fight is over and you won!”
“The fight is never over,” Henrik growled. “Every one of these motherfuckers would have gladly killed me. It’s time to repay the favor.” He raised his sword and approached the nearest orc, who hurried back, trying to get away. “Come here!” Henrik roared.
“Henrik!” that voice shouted again. “He was not part of the fight. You won the fight, Henrik. Take a deep breath.”
Henrik turned to see who was bothering him. Some fucking halfbreed wearing robes. So, a witchman. That could get dangerous, but as long as he was fast, he’d be okay.
Something caught Henrik’s eye and he turned and glanced to the side. One of the orcs had a dagger in hand. Henrik snatched his own dagger from his belt and threw it, left-handed. It slammed into the orc’s chest and he fell to the ground.
“Have none of you any honor?” Henrik roared, turning to face the cowards that circled him. “Twice I was stabbed in the back of the leg. Twice!” He shook with rage as he walked up to the largest man he could find, then pointed at the orc’s chest with his sword. “You. In the circle. Now.”
“Henrik, he is not your enemy!” that fucking annoying voice called out. It scratched at Henrik’s mind like a fingernail picking at a scab. He turned his head and snarled at the witchman. He would die next.
“Henrik, it’s me, Rasud!” he shouted. “We grew up together in an orphanage in Selfoss. Do you remember the stew they made for lunch every day?”
Henrik blinked. A memory floated through the ocean of rage in his mind and settled on the surface. Bland stew, but at least it was hot. “They served it with fresh bread, which was the only good thing about it,” he said, then turned back to the large orc. The man trembled with fear, but at least he had the courage to stand in place. Henrik tightened his grip on his sword. He would kill everyone here if that’s what it took.
“What about Anslie?” the annoying witchman called out.
“Anslie?” Henrik shook his head as more memories broke through his anger. A face formed in his mind, a face with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. The most beautiful face he had ever seen.
“Don’t you want to see her again?” the witchman asked.
The beautiful woman rode a dragon. That much he remembered. A dragon….
Henrik turned until he saw the orc witch standing there at the southern end of the circle. She raised her chin, refusing to back down as he slowly approached.
“Give me the egg,” Henrik said in a low, threatening tone. “Give me the fucking egg or I will kill everyone here.”
“No, Henrik!” the witchman called out. “She’s mine. I’m pretty sure she has the hots for me. I saw her looking.”
Henrik’s anger bubbled like a cauldron, but something else rose to the surface. A laugh. It broke through the crust of his rage and he found himself chuckling. It sounded like death itself laughing. The orc witch stood her ground, meeting Henrik’s gaze. That was no easy feat.
Pain began to grow in Henrik’s stomach. He turned to walk toward the witchman and looked down at himself. Blood poured from a deep wound in his gut with each step he took. He grit his teeth and refused to allow any of the pain to show on his face as he walked towards the witchman. Next to him, a soldier brought his shield up, ready to fight.
Henrik examined his sword for a moment, then walked over to the dead orc, Yakha. He wiped the blade clean on the orc’s tunic, then slid his sword into its scabbard. After that, he walked back over to the witchman. To Rasud.
“I think I need some healing,” he said, forcing a smile.
