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“That boy is mad, I tell you,” a guard commented while he escorted a cloaked man through the corridors of a gloomy dungeon.

“I wouldn’t be here otherwise,” the hooded man nonchalantly commented. A shadow veiled his face, but it was not difficult to discern that the man was approaching his fifties, possessing a brown beard with hints of gray highlighted by the few torches hanging on the walls of the hallway.

“Beat four grown-ass guards… with a lumberjack ax’s handle! No metal attached! What kid does that?” the guard spoke with disbelief.

“Only four? Heard he stood against more.”

“Well… could not have allowed him to defeat more, do we? The moment the guys noticed four were not enough, the entire crew fell over the brat.” The bearded man only hummed.

A minute passed, and the flagstone’s thud came to an end. Now, both individuals stood in front of a cell, looking at a small figure sitting on a wooden bench behind the steel bars, arms shackled to the wall, head hanging with boredom.

“Very well… not sure what’s your deal with the Captain, but here you have him,” the guard said as he started to unknot the keys from his belt. He inserted the keys in both locks, and the door swung open with a drawn-out creak.

“So…” the guard narrowed closer to the cloaked man and murmured: “Are you going to enchant the boy, melt his brain, or…”

“What I’m going to do is none of your business, lackey,” the guard skipped back. “Stay here and wait for me to finish our chatter. Once we finish, you can go back to snoozing as you were doing.”

The guard grimaced but kept his contempt to himself and said nothing. Bursting insults at a wizard were among the unwisest things one could do.

The guard gave the mage space to access the cell, and the cloaked man walked in. Leaning against the wall was a teenager whose age did not exceed fifteen. Red and purple bruises marked his exposed suntouched skin, courtesy of a group of angry guards. His unkempt hair, blackish-grey as coal, fell past his ears and cast a shadow over his eyebrows.

“Bold of you to step with me alone. Did you not hear the words of that bastard out there? I’m quite the big deal,” the boy commented, brown irises scrutinizing the man who had just arrived. The man knew better: the boy was looking for a tool to help him cut any slack.

“You are no menace to me, boy. Even without those shackles, you could not inflict me harm. You can stop observing: I brought no weapon with me.”

The kid haughtily huffed, seemingly unsurprised by how the man saw through his scheme. “Curious cape… It has some scaly patterns… Is it monster-made?” He said, genuine curiosity tinging his tone.

“I’m not here to talk about garments, boy,” the man chided. Murmurs came out from inside the hood, intelligible chants for the shackled person, then the stomp of a boot hit the floor, releasing a faint, purple ripple that shrank into clusters of tiny sparks until their shine faded.

The prisoner swung his head left and right and then addressed the visitor. “So, a spellcaster, eh, geezer? What spell did you use?” The teenager asked, unimpressed and unafraid by the showcase of magic, but nevertheless with eyes lit with interest.

“That’s up to me to know,” the mage stated blankly.

The boy scoffed. “What now? Going to torture me? Do jailers call for adepts like you to torment those who get into a quarry with soldiers?”

“A quarry,” the man echoed, then he chuckled. “You think the authorities are fools? Your ‘quarry’ was a distraction,” the boy frowned, “during your amusing activity with the soldiers, prowlers sneaked into the barracks and seized some… valuable goods. ”

The black-haired boy’s eyes went astray, no longer glancing at the cloaked man. “You planned this, didn’t you?” asked the sorcerer.

“Not my plan,” the kid uttered. “Just played along.”

“But you were aware.”

“Not like I had a choice,” the teenager turned to the mage again. “They told me they would steal some weapons, but I suspect that wasn’t entirely true. Right?”

There was a beat before the mage talked again. “They had told me to use my magic to tear valuable information out of you… but I see this is a waste of time. You are an ignorant buster.”

“Eh?” The boy grimaced, puzzled. “Are you taking me for—”

“A mere goon? Yes. Indeed, you were not valuable to them,” the wizard interrupted, taking an irritated groan out of the teenager. “You were a dog, and they let the leash go for you to annoy the soldiers. This has not been the first time they made this with you: there had been sightings of a battling, black-haired youngster in the past,” the mage got close, carefree of any possible attack. “And this time, the kennel got the dog collared.”

“You think of yourself as very wise, don’t you? Fucking geezer,” the teenager growled.

“Now, the question is why the Separatists left this fighter for dead,” he commented rhetorically, expecting an answer from the boy. His ears only caught the crackle of the torches.

“Well, not like that information is relevant. The authorities already know you collaborated with the Separatists, whatever the reason; your age will not save you from being hanged.”

The boy continued without saying anything, his eyes looking at the cold floor. The mage hummed for a brief moment, contemplating his next step. “You know… it’s a shame the Separatists did not make use of your person fruitfully. Whoever forced you to work with them was not very clever.”

The young rogue raised his head, shooting another look at the bearded man, face bereft of emotion.

“Your abilities are remarkable. Swipe the cobblestone with… how many guards? Three? It is something one expects from a knight.”

“... Four,” the prisoner uttered. “Beat four. Then another six came by… knocked down two more before my ‘weapon’ snapped.”

“Heh, yeah, they kept that detail off the report,” the mage chuckled. After a short-lived silence, the man decided to remove his hood — he was bald, and his beard and mustache were thorny-like. “Tell me, do you feel loyalty towards the Separatists?”

The kid paused briefly, then shook his head and scoffed. “Fuck them.”

“Do you hate the current Kingdom? The Royalists?”

“No more than I hate the others.”

“Feel some animosity toward people like me? Mages or conjurers?”

“Never saw one myself. No reason to set my head ablaze for any of you.”

“Magnific!” The wizard clapped his hands. Marek found it strange that this man, cold and daunting the instant he stepped into his prison, now looked like someone one could take a cup of wine with. “So hear me out: What do you say about joining me and my guild?”

The teenager arched an eyebrow. “I’m no wizard. And I don’t feel like studying rituals.”

“Not relevant. Metal sticks still have their uses.”

“I don’t feel like working for the King.”

The man grinned. “We don’t work for the King. We work for ourselves . We merely collaborate with the winning side.”

“And that is…?”

“Not the Separatists.”

The kid looked past the mage and eyed the guard outside the cell, then murmured: “Sounds like there are more than Royalists and Separatists in this mess.”

The mage shrugged. “Either way, you get to fight the ones that enslaved you. So, choose now. I'm a busy man, and my patience grows thin.”

Clinker-colored eyes pointed up at the ceiling, meditation taking place inside the boy. Did he have any other choice? It was either the guild or the pole and the rope. Besides, the offer was not half bad in his book.

The black-haired teenager grunted as he made up his mind. “Fine. When will I get out of this hole?”

The mage smiled. “You’ll have to wait a little more,” he turned to the door. “Paperwork is in order. Try not to rot during one day.”

Before the mage got out of the, the rogue spoke. “Before you go, can I know about that spell you cast?”

The mage gyrated back and spoke. “Oh, I thought you weren’t interested in ‘rituals.’ Either way, you can call it a zone of truth. It allows only truth to be voiced in the area.”

“Didn’t feel forced to say anything, did the magic brainwash me?”

“None of that. The spell may only allow truth, but it doesn’t tear it from your mind or mouth.” The mage’s head tilted. “I see you never bothered to lie.”

“There was no reason to lie,” it was the turn of the boy to cock his head. “What about the cloak? Can you tell me what it’s made of now?”

“Manticore skin.”

“Manticore…” the kid uttered, intrigued. “You fought a manticore? You fought a monster?”

“Used to. Too old to hunt for freaks nowadays. It’s more profitable to hunt after our own kind.”

“When I join you, will I fight monsters? Always imagined participating in one of these legendary battles…” He said as if daydreaming.

The wizard chuckled. “Perhaps,” he pursed his lips. “What is your name, boy?”

“Marek,” the kid responded.

“Well, see you in one day, Marek,” he turned again and finally left the cell. “By the way, my name is Aurelio. ”

The thuds faded within the next minute, and Marek stayed once again alone in that one dusty cell, with mice as occasional visitors. But the loneliness did not last long — just as Aurelo had promised, he was set free the next day, joining the group of mercenaries not too long afterward, therefore, arising in a new life as Marek Blakesley.

————————————————————————————————————————————————

Marek could not remember the last time he had dreamed of the old man Aurelio.

After the death of his master, the guild of sellswords was dismantled, and Marek turned into a lone traveler. With the Arcane Infection casting a deathly shadow over him, he passed the following years seeking a cure, no longer caring for gold or his old sword and dagger business.

Now, he finally found one window of hope, one that led him to a frozen landscape filled with furry and feathery beasts. One of these beasts guided him through arctic territory, chirping, cooing, and barking from time to time.

When Marek woke up, Sigrid greeted him with newfound hare, one untouched by her beak, just as promised. After cooking, the fighter retrieved his wrapped item and rabbit leftovers and abandoned the base of that looming tree.

The sands quickened, and now the human found himself marching in solitude, the owl-wolfess nowhere to be seen. Often, the she-monster would abandon the man for several minutes to scout the area or pursue some critters. In the latter case, sometimes she would return with a sheepish mien, guilty of leaving the man alone.

Marek assured her that there was no issue, that he could fend for himself. Besides, he enjoyed loneliness.

“Perhaps I should be less stern with the girl.”

With Sigrid away doing who knows what, Marek marched across the pinewoods, ax in hand. The dense vegetation and statuesque wooden pillars obstructed the light of the day, creating fitting spots for leopards to hide in. Not like Marek feared the big cats — whether caught by surprise or not, snowcats little could attain in messing with him.

Or that would have been the case if Marek did not feel the so-familiar pressure in his chest.

“A-again? Just g-got one yester-day!” Marek choked with his words, his teeth clenching. He scrambled to the closest support, a sloped pine, and extended his left arm to rest his weight, and with his other forearm, which wielded Iousterard, he tried to suppress the noise of his wheezing.

While his ill-treated form rested beside the pine, bushes crackled and rustled in the vicinity. The fighter staggered to turn to the source of the noise. He wanted to believe Sigrid generated the sound, but whatever lay hidden acted cautiously, bearing potential predatory intent.

All kinds of possibilities stormed his mind: Was it a leopard? A wolf? The raptors came in packs, so those were most likely out of the equation. Another stray warg? It should not be a manticore or a troll; the two are too sizable, the former lurking in this part of the Frostscape a rare occurrence.

Marek’s mind was anxious, but he would not surrender to panic — no weakness would elicit from his being. He gritted his teeth and snarled, the right hand grasping tightly at the silvery handle. “I will— I will be no beast’s snack,” he uttered. “I-I fear no m-monster! If you think I’m easy pre-prey, you could not be m-more—”

His threats fell short the moment the sneaky predator showed up — a small arctic fox. The pained man surveyed the tiny animal, which was no bigger than a house dog, his visage frozen with anger and pain, mere mirages of what used to be a sense of defenselessness.

The fox likewise regarded the human for a second before releasing a bark, slipping away with no delay. Only when the critter left the scene did Marek’s face slowly revert to his stern one, issuing gentle pants, heart whacking against his ribcage. When the fit ceased, the fighter felt relieved — relieved and stupid.

“Did… Did a furry critter really put me on edge?” He whispered. “Such… such stupidity.”

Shame burned him from the inside like acidic fumes. How could he expect to survive here when a mere fox startled him so much? What could have happened if any other beast had dropped in? Even a leopard could have been his demise.

It is almost like you are seeking death. Imbi’s words resonated inside his head, his fingers instinctively flexing on his weapon’s hilt and the tree’s bark.

“I’m Wargbane, as you said… that is undeniable. I’ll beat this Godforsaken place. I’ll survive.” Determined, Marek separated from the pine and started to advance, but a branch loudly crunching stopped him in his tracks.

“Eh—” The man did not get to squeal as the whipping sound thundered, snow and sticks snapping and jerking at his surroundings. He felt a pressure seizing his right boot and a force pulling him up, his back pounding against the icy gravel, flipping him upside down. By the time Marek was already aware of the surroundings, he was hanging by his right leg, suspended more than fifteen feet in the air, cloak and coat draping low.

Marek rubbed the back of his head; after the dull pain vanished, he missed no beat to take advantage of Sigrid’s absence to work around Imbi’s second rule. “Abso- bloody -lutely fuck- astic.”

What kind of boneheaded hunter goes far north into the Frostscape and sets this senseless trap?

Nevertheless, the fighter was more frustrated than threatened. The abruptness of the triggered mechanism made Marek drop off his ax, and his device slipped out of his back; however, Dalavut and two dirks remained within the safety of his belt.

He considered calling Sigrid, but emitting loud sounds in the wilderness with predators lurking in every corner was not a nobrainer move. In the end, Marek opted to use the sword to slice the rope — the fall might hurt, but with his acrobatic prowess, the impact should be lessened to the point that no wound would be long-lasting. At worst, such vexing lesions would be nothing the longsword’s magic could not fix.

The hung man unsheathed the red sword, but before we got to swing the blade, a missile drew a gash on his armed hand, the jolt of pain causing the steely length to slip out and plunge from Marek’s fingers — that had been an arrow.

“Ghr!” The man in a snare groaned at the laceration, his eyes now trying to pinpoint the source of the furtive attack. He saw an arm holding a crossbow peeking out of some bushes.

“Softskin is good where he is.” The vegetation shook and split apart to reveal the bulky form of a humanoid, his hands working around the ballista and loading it with a dart. He was six feet of muscles, with a flattened nose, halfway between a human’s and a pig’s, and speaking of pigs, two hog-like tusks protruded from his lower jaw, about an inch long each. But the most notorious attribute, the key differentiator between the present someone and an ugly and hefty human, was the color of his skin: it was gray, like limestone or a wood pigeon.

Gray-colored. A grey. Better known in the South as an orc.

The grey wore pelts, ox and wolf, if Marek had to guess, with bushes attached to his back, shoulders, forearms, and the top of his head. Camouflage suit, clever.

“You are far from home, grey,” Marek commented, refusing to drop his serious demeanor despite the situation he found himself in.

“So is softskin,” the orc responded, his inflection resembling rolling logs. “Too loud. Could hear softskin from dozens of paces away.” Oh, this one knows how to count. “Surviving alone till now must have been luck.”

“I wouldn’t consider myself blessed with such a thing,” Marek said, but the orc paid him no mind as the savage approached the trapped warrior’s spot, the ballista directed at Marek’s hanging and defenseless body.

“Move and get the point of arrow. Get it?” The grey threatened as he closed the distance. He was interested in the human’s dumped loot. His diminutive black dots of irises focused on the gleaming ax. “Goldmine,” he grinned in delight, picking the weapon from the ground.

“You travel this far hoping to find and catch unaware roamers loaded with gold and other shiny junk?” Marek chuckled, the wind now making him stare in a direction other than the orc. “Is that business swamped from where you live? Very dumb if you ask me.”

“Dumb? Dumb trap caught softskin. If Mez’un dumb, softskin dumber,” Touché, “Also, softkin possesses nice loot.” The grey spoke at the same time he inspected Iousterard. Marek tried to seize the chance to take a dirk from his belt, but the orc possessed sharp eyes. “Move and take bolt.”

Marek clicked his tongue. What was he to do, wait for Sigrid? No, Marek tripped the boot, literally. The human fighter had let a fox startle him during a moment of weakness, but he was healthy now. Something would come to him.

“Come on, you can’t leave me here in the middle of nowhere unarmed and hanging. What would you do with my goods? Lead a black market?” And while he figured out a way to revert the circumstances, he would try to start a chit-chat. The conventional grey would have killed him in the act. Why has this one not done such a thing?

“Care not about softkin. And Mez’un don’t trade. Care not about gold. Need weapons,” the creature placed the ax in his pelts and then turned toward the wrapped device. “Guz’tha reigns over tribe. Winged beast caused disaster, but Guz’tha stayed strong. Mez’un takes softskin’s weapon and defies current chieftain.” Ah, yes. It's that one time of the year when orcs ‘elect’ their leader.

The grey knelt and untied the brown leathers, separating another bag from the rare fabrics. The orc unfurled the small sack and discovered some roasted flesh: the leftovers of the hare. A short-lived examination followed by a series of sniffs, and the orc took a bite at the flesh, chewing loudly. “Softskin is not very good cooker,” he commented while he took another chomp.

Then why the fuck do you keep eating my food, you stinky brute?

After devouring the rabbit, the grey moved to the big prize: the device. He unfastened the cords surrounding the curious object and glanced at what was inside. The orc frowned and grimaced in flagrant confusion. “What is this?”

“Unusual, right? A relic of the future,” the human mentioned, his face smirking, amused by the savage’s dumbfounded reaction. For his luck, he stared in another direction, so the human’s mocking reaction passed unnoticed by the orc.

The orc retrieved something from the leathers, some cylindrical piece of metal, a container of some class, big enough to occupy a human’s fist. One end was red-colored and slightly pointed. “Agitate that thing and consider us both dead,” The orc snapped his eyes at the hanged man; he was about to growl something, but the words got stuck in his throat, then he put the assembled steel back inside the wrappings.

“Thing is not magickal like axe. You bluff.”

“That is technology for you, orc. Most individuals, greys or ‘softskins,’ couldn’t fathom its capabilities… on their own.” I hope he doesn’t take that sentence as an insult.

The beastlike man growled but refrained from doing anything violent. There was another available prize lying in the snow, a blade with a skull hilt, and the orc moved toward it. The longsword loomed soberly with red and black hues, and when the orc extended his arm, something vice struck him and stopped his movement in the act, taking his hand back.

“Witchcraft,” he snarled.

“Superstitious, grey?”

“You talk a lot, softskin. Bigmouths like you are good taking arrows,” the orc jeopardized.

“Come on, give me this; I may not see the next day. Also, if you haven’t killed yet, perhaps you have further plans besides killing me or leaving me suspended,” the grey gnarled. “You are a smart, competent hunter, and surprisingly for your kind, cold-headed. But that is not enough to defeat that Guzzy fellow, isn’t that right? I noticed something about your person: your height is below average.”

“Mez’un is strong, swift, and smart,” the orc, Mez’un, rebuked. “Guz’tha is dimwitted like bear and sluggard like seacow.” Mez’un lowered his hand to his belt until it rested on top of his new weapon’s handle. “And with magickal weapon, victory belongs to Mez’un.”

“And I ask: do you know how to use that ax?” The grey issued a low growl. “That is why you have not killed me: you want me to show you the enchanted weapon’s secrets. Now… what do I obtain if I help you…?” Marek trailed off, leaving that question hanging in the air. Hanging… so curious.

“What makes softskin believe Mez’un need help? With shiny axe, weird item and damned blade are not needed.”

Marek chuckled, “Oh, if you knew about this damned sword, you would notice leaving the weapon alone is a dumb idea. You see, the weapon is somehow sentient. Leave it alone, and resentment will grow within. Pray no enemy of yours finds the cursed item, otherwise it will lead him right to you.”

The orc’s white orbs shrunk into slits. “You bluff.”

But the warrior shrugged. “You are free to prove me wrong. Besides,” Marek tilted his head at the metallic device. “That is a weapon of mass destruction. Do you think defeating Guzzy will be enough to win your tribe over? Nah, he must have reliable henchmen at his service. You not only need to defeat Guzzy: you need to defeat him and assert yourself powerfully.”

Mez’un seized the hanged man with his almost entirely white eyes, lower jaw swagging, and occasionally puffing through his pig-like nostrils.

Sigrid sure likes to take her sweet time, Marek thought.

“Fine. Softskin reveals how weapons work, and softskin gets to see another dawn,” the brawny humanoid spat up, making Marek’s eyes wince in surprise. “First, drop your knives,” Marek pursed his lips, “Mez’un is aware a pair of sharp metal are knotted to belt. Let them fall.”

Marek was quiet for a second, but the crossbow was doing an excellent job persuading him. “As you command.” He undid the leather band and let the set of knives fall to the snow with a thud. “Are we fine?”

The grey nodded. “Now tell Mez’un what Mez’un need to know. How Mez’un wield cursed sword and use ‘future’ thing?”

“Can I… get down first?”

“No.”

Figures.

Marek sighed. “Very well… Here’s the secret: the sword is sensitive to melody. Now, I need to look for my flute, which is within my clothes, if you don’t mind.”

Mez’un wagged his jaw. “Try nothing funny.”

Now, with the brute’s consent, Marek tried to reach for his draping longcoat. The entire ‘looking for the flute’ was an orchestrated trick — Marek faked a struggle to disguise his movement, ‘inconvenient’ rotations that allowed him to unknot his cloak and kick his trapped boot with his other leg, making the dirk hidden inside to drop to one of his hands without the grey having the slightest suspicion.

With the manticore cloak untied enough and with a dagger ingeniously shadowed behind his wrist, Marek retrieved the flute and displayed it to his captor. “Here you have it. Don’t worry about not being attuned to music; this piece is magical.” This will end soon. My head is already red.

The grey eyed the crafted instrument, not convinced by its alleged magic. But he did not want to argue; Mez’un could validate the authenticity of the enchanted flute — if the piece of wood resulted in a mundane trinket, the gray point of an arrow would be the last thing the human fighter saw.

“Toss it.” Marek could hardly contain a smirk; the orc’s hurry saved him extra steps. Always the impatient kind.

Mez’un extended his free hand; meanwhile, Marek held the flute with one hand and the concealed dirk with the other, this one ready to snatch at his loosened cloak. Then, the warrior flung the instrument at the gray man.

While the flute drew an arc in the air, Mez’un noticed the shine of a piece of metal held by a glove, all while the hand holding it started to spring toward the orc on the ground. Mez’un took this as an attempt on his life.

“You—!” Bewildered and enraged, Mez’un pulled the trigger of the hand crossbow, a click announcing the release of a speeding bolt — just as Marek anticipated. The sleight of hand was not to throw the blade but the cloak, unwrapping smoothly out of Marek’s neck and hustling toward the orc. The flute gave him the necessary gap in time to execute the maneuver, and the monstrous cloth expanded in mid-air and caught the flying arrow.

Despite the type of garment, the piece of monster hide rushed at the orc briskly, unhindered by the striking missile. “Wha—” The mantle covered the orc’s head and arm, giving Marek two seconds to throw the sharp metal at the stretched rope. The metal cut the rope clean, and Marek plummeted into the chilled soil, right where Dalavut awaited his arrival.

Mez’un roared, yanking the garment off him and setting his vision free. His crossbow had been emptied ammunitionless, so he discarded the useless missile weapon and drew the newly stolen ax from his pelt.

Marek landed with a crash, his weight smashing his right arm. It hurt, a wave of pain searing like hot water, but he bit his tongue and stifled the sensation. As far as Marek was concerned, one arm was everything needed to claim victory. Marek recovered from the landing quickly, reclaiming the ebony-red sword with his left arm.

“You deceiver!” Mez’un bellowed.

“You stupid,” came Marek’s response.

The gleaming ax dived directly at Marek’s head. He thought about warding the attack off, but considering the elven’s edge and the orc’s strength, he theorized the impact could dent Dalavut. He had never tested the durability of his weapons, and this was not the time to do it. Ultimately, Marek decided to sidestep.

The ax slash missed its mark, and the human fighter was already celebrating victory. He dodged, the creature missed the intended target, and the last thing to do was to lunge forward. An orc could not be as fast as he was.

But a clank proved the man wrong.”—!” The edge gashed the brute’s shoulder but failed to slice further. Mez’un defended with success, intercepting Marek’s attack with the ax.

“Mez’un swift,” murmured the orc, face stinking with both anger and confidence.

Frustrated, Marek bounced back; remaining in close quarters with a fast and bulky man was not the appropriate approach. The human was quicker, regardless, so he just needed to seize an opening and swing his sword. Death should follow handily.

But that was better said than done.

Mez’un drew ample arcs in the air, the wind whistling with his blows. It was a savage attacking method, but with his speed, he succeeded in keeping Marek from counterattacking. It was unusual for the human fighter to play defensively.

The aperture showed up, and the black-haired fighter thrust forward. But yet another surprise manifested: during that last attack, Mez’un pulled out another weapon from his garments — a mace lined with metal. That weapon was too advanced to be crafted by orc hands. Just like with the hand crossbow, Mez’un must have ripped it from the hands of an unfortunate wanderer.

The cursed sword bit the mace, slicing all the way to the center. Had the club been orc-made, the magical blade would have severed it completely, and this fight could have very well been concluded. But Marek was lacking in the luck department these last two days, and Seolvor reveled in the struggle of his followers.

With the sword tripped by wood, Mez’un lashed out with his other arm, Marek having no choice but to duck awkwardly to not relinquish his only weapon.

The struggle with a trapped length continued for a couple of seconds until Marek kicked the orc, the sword popping free from the club on the spot. But bad luck continued assaulting Marek, and his last mundane attack seemed to inspire new tactics in the enemy, who released a kick of his own.

A groan leaked between his teeth as the impact landed on his left thigh. The human failed to catch a breath with another onslaught with the ax followed, an attack that Marek ended up parrying, avoiding the keen edge of Iousterard and blocking the handle of the weapon. The arterial-red blade struck lower than expected, taking one of the orc’s fingers.

Mez’un groaned harshly, almost ox-like, and countered with his mace. The black-haired swordsman swerved but failed to be fast enough, the piece of wood and metal striking his already battered right arm, bone juddering inside flesh and muscle. Marek swallowed a scream and grunted, clenching his teeth.

Dual-wielder fighter, brutish strength, speed nearly as good as mine. How strong can this Guzzy be for this guy to feel unconfident in defeating him?

The latest smash sent Marek rolling on his back, his rear now against a pine. He was panting, sweat dripping down his bangs and covering his strained mien. This ‘dumb’ orc was really making him run for his money.

I wouldn’t win a prolonged fight. I may be faster, but no way I’ll surpass an orc in stamina. And my arm aches. Marek started to hope Sigrid would show up here and now. But this was his fight. He proposed to traverse the Arctic, and the only acceptable individual that could slay him was an oversized, winged lizard.

“Regretting facing Mez’un?” The grey leered, his right hand dripping with blood. “Should have yielded magick weapons to Mez’un. Now softskin die as mongrel.”

Chuckles startled the approaching orc, the humanoid arching his hairless brow. “I regret shit, you loathsome pigface,” Marek crouched to one knee, “I’m Wargbane. You heard that? I defeated the blizzard-breathing monsters. You are but a swine compared to them. A stupid, filthy swine that wallows in his own crap,” Mez’un snarled, his grip strengthening on both weapons, “You’ll die, and in one mere day, I, and your tribe, would forget that an orc called Mez’un even existed. ”

“You wrong!” Mez’un roared and charged toward the hurt warrior.

Marek had not fallen to one knee because of pain or tiredness; he was pulling his fourth dirk. The last club smack was strong, but it felt clumsy. Mez’un had not mastered ambidextrousness, and his left-handed attacks lacked impetus compared to his right-hand attacks; he continued with that style because he believed Marek’s right arm was out of commission.

Marek let him dwell in that illusion.

The human fighter focused on the rushing barbarian, counting down every step left for the grey to reach him. When Mez’un was close enough, Marek revealed a speeding missile from his left hand, forcing Mez’un to lean back, the knife grazing the hefty bicep. During the gap in time during which Mez’un moved backward, Marek strode, his body low, aiming for the unwieldy side of the orc.

Iousterard trailed behind Marek, but because of the distracting dagger, the ax would not hit its mark, so the only immediate danger for Marek was the swinging mace — the one that only struck air as the human slipped below the arm of the brute.

The human gashed the side of the orc, the hastiness of the assault and pain in the arm preventing the human from doing more damage, the wound taking a hiss from the brute — but that was all but the end of Marek’s counter. With his right arm, Marek seized the grey’s waist to use it as a pivoting point; the maneuver worked, and the black-haired man veered, now facing Mez’un’s bush-covered back.

The savage tried to gyrate and face his enemy, to no avail. He was no longer in a position to execute a proper counterattack, so he shot back an elbow, one strike even landing on Marek’s jaw. The swordsman grunted, but nothing would prevent him from ending this absurd fight. With no more delay, Marek impaled Dalavut through the grey’s body, cursed blade poking the right lung.

Mez’un released an excruciating roar, the entire woods shaken by his booming death throes.

Despite the foulness the orcish blood was known for, Dalavut found Mez’un’s blood delectable, thus rewarding Marek with the blood surge, increasing his strength, mending his injuries, and suppressing his pain. Marek smiled in satisfaction, teeth lengthened into sharp diminutive knives.

“This is the witchcraft that you once feared and rejected.” Marek twirled the cursed blade inside, forcing Mez’un to throw out a spurt of blood. Then, by taking advantage of his improved strength, Marek pushed the sword toward the savage’s right shoulder, cleaving flesh and bone alike until the longsword swished out of the body. The orc’s bellow was now choking with blood, and the agony forced him to drop Iousterard.

With the sword no longer trapped by the mass of muscle, Marek kicked the grey forward, smacking head-first against the pine. With his vitality now bleeding out, Mez’un crumbled to his knees, using the remaining vigor to turn around, his other arm raising to defend himself from what would be the blade of his executioner.

“P-ples… N-n more… Mez’uu-u nedd to lead t—” Marek did not feel obliged to hear the orc’s pleadings and swung the weapon down at the broken hunter. The mace rose to intercept the attack, one last attempt to prevent the inevitable; however, after all the damage it had sustained through the fight, the mace could not resist the slice and, subsequently, split in two, the sword continuing its course until it drew a red line across the broad chest.

Unconvinced by the lethality of the wound, Marek continued his onslaught.

“You think you can take my belongings?” This time, an arm flung through the air, blood splashing everywhere.

“My food?” The landscape grew thick with the sickening sound of squelches.

“That you can put me upside down and mock me?!” The cries of pain stopped. Marek’s ears tingled with rage, and the world around him silenced itself so he could take his retaliation.

But the silence did not last — a melodic voice rang from behind, like a singing maiden calling for help. For his help. A girl? Here? Amid this damnable wasteland?

The maiden mentioned his name with insistence, and he turned around to witness a white-as-snow winged entity, its eyes shining like blue-sky steel. “I will be no beast’s snack,” he growled, baring his grown fangs. “I fear no monster.”

The voice continued to pierce his ears. Was there a maiden behind that monster? Marek contemplated. But it was irrelevant. Everything but his goal was. If this feathery creature were to stand between him and his goal, then so be it. Orcs, giant birds, and even the dragon would fall to his blade. And then he would be free. He would be—

“Marc!” Sigrid shrieked.

“—!” Marek gasped audibly, and his eyes burst wide, unfocused, his breathing rapid as if he had run miles. He stood at a loss: What happened to the orc he was battling with? His eyes darted around, trying to spot that grayish individual. His shoulders skipped when he cast a look behind his shoulder — leaning against the tree lay a bloody carcass, shredded almost beyond recognition, the gray in its body giving it away as the remains of the brute Marek fought minutes ago. Mez’un.

“Marc.” The owl-wolfess mouthed softly, her voice carrying concern. Marek did not react to her words, staring agape at the destroyed orc. It happened again. The sword’s bane got the best out of him.

“Marc!” Sigrid cried out again, drawing Marek’s gaze to her. “I heard violent noises. Are you alright—”

“Where have you been?” He grilled her, his harshness making her wings twitch.

“Er— Sigrid was— I was doing—” She stuttered, intimidated by the man in front. She was about to add something when the man interrupted her.

“You know what? It doesn’t matter. I fared just fine.” Marek turned around to retrieve Iousterard from the wrecked corpse. Sigrid stood on two feet, body unerect, and with ears leaning backward.

“‘F-fared fine’?… Marc, you do not look fine,” she uttered, flexing one claw in the air.

“I’m alive and in one piece, am I not? That is fine in my book,” Marek said, now moving toward his cloak and belt.

“But your face… You overkilled the grey. You growled like a wolf… That was not your face. That was the nasty sword doings, was not it? Why would you use that awful blade?”

Marek’s upper lip peeled upward. “Because I needed it, period.”

“B-but look at you. You—”

“Look, I did what I needed to do to survive. The situation was tight, and my neck was in the line. What was I supposed to do? Wait for you ?” Sigrid cowered, guilt starting to appear in her countenance. “Can’t count for someone to appear any moment to save my arse. This is the wilderness, Sigrid. There is no one out there covering my back!”

Marek then swiveled to his device, tying the textiles all over again, but his emotional tumult led him to no success, failing miserably with such a trivial task. Meanwhile, Sigrid stared at the ground with squinted and pained eyes.

“For— Forgive me, Marc,” the man stopped sorting out his belongings to listen, but did not turn back. “I promised Imbi I would guide you… But I left you alone… and you almost died.” She then breathed a feeble whimper. “ I failed you. ”

With the magic of the sword already dwindling, Marek digested the words he spat at Sigrid and how much he must have hurt her. Once a jerk, always a jerk.

“It is because of me, is it not? You do not trust a nonhuman like me,” Sigrid rubbed her claws. Marek stayed silent, kneeling in front of his device, the piece of metal inside obscured by the brown of the fabric.

When Marek did not come up with an answer, Sigrid’s ears fell past her blue orbs. “I see… P-perhaps, you would like to be alone for a while. I can— I will stay some feet away from you from now on… If that is what you wish.” She slowly turned back, reverting to her quadrupedal stance.

“I’m not angry at you, Sigrid,” Marek articulated. “Is just that… I was supposed to make this journey alone,” the man gyrated his body toward the owl-wolfess, his eyes connecting with Sigrid’s, who now stared at him. “How can I live with myself knowing I willingly entered one of the most dangerous places in Gebaten only to fearfully cry for help? How do I look at my face in the mirror?”

“But— But you are not alone. You are with Sig— you are with me. I offered my help so you do not have to suffer. I wanted to help you because—” Sigrid tried to protest, somehow attempting to soothe Marek, but the man cut her off.

“Because you believed I wouldn’t survive on my own, right?” There was no accusation in his tone, and neither was there anger. If Sigrid thought that, then she was aware of the harsh reality more than Marek was.

“N-no, I-I…” she stuttered, but composed quickly. “That is not true! Marc can face any danger in the Arctic. You killed Gruhulla and his pack. You killed raptors. And so you killed an orc!”

“Only got alive from Gruhulla’s encounter because of you, Sigrid. A for the other two—”

“Matters not!” She barked, cutting off Marek’s argument. “I was about to die. Hoomans would have died. Yet you had come to stop wargs. Not even manticores would have dared to battle Gruhulla. And hoomans dare to face wargs only when in groups. You do it on your own!”

Marek blinked; he wanted to retort, but words froze in his throat.

“Imbi calls me ‘apex predator,’ but I could not even stand against wargs,” she continued. “But when you helped me, I did not feel weak. The inverse: I felt strong. Stronger than ever. For the first time, I had an ally willing to fight at my side.”

So please, Marc Bleikslie, do not feel ashamed if you need me. Sigrid is an ally,” she momentarily eyed the blade at Marek’s side. “And you do not need the nasty blade to be strong.”

The two individuals surveyed their eyes for a brief moment before the man exhaled an exhausted sigh. “You are all the public speaker, Sigrid,” he chuckled, “If it were for your excessive fur, I would have sworn that you are Imbi’s true daughter.”

“R-really?” She uttered, taken aback, head cocked into an ell. “Did— did my chirping help? Do you feel better now?”

Marek nodded. “Was good enough.” He turned back to his device; Marek did not see how Sigrid reacted to his words, although he managed to catch a glimpse of her mane ruffling. Marek continued sorting out his assets: Mez’un eating his food was a drop in a bucket, but he needed his flasks and the device’s ammunition intact.

While he organized his belongings, Sigrid scrambled around as if she were looking for something. Marek paid no mind, and after successfully tying his textiles, he rose to his feet. With his device and other things back to his back, Marek cast a last look at Mez’un’s body.

For a brief moment, Marek contemplated the grey’s former ambitions — how he wanted to seize control over his tribe, to stand against those who have muscle instead of brain. He was smaller than most of his kind, yet Mez’un was worth half a dozen of his kind, perhaps more. He throve, and if the orc had not the misfortune to face Marek, there was no doubt for the human that Mez’un would have succeeded in his goal.

You picked the wrong enemy, my ugly comrade.

“Marc,” Marek’s thoughtful state fell apart thanks to a sweet voice. Sigrid sat at his right, her claws clutching something gray and brown. “I found your daggers and my flute. Emm… you want them back, right?”

Marek’s eyes focused on the two items grasped by four clawed fingers of oysterish color. The last time Marek rejected this kind deed, he got branded as ‘roode’. He would not commit the same mistake, not with Sigrid.

Marek extended his arm and his belongings. “Thank you, Sigrid. And forgive me for screaming at you. I guess I deserved to be called rude.”

Sigrid’s eyes gleamed, tilting her head, ears wiggling tenderly. “Worry not, Marc. You may be roode, but you are the third— er, second kindest hooman I know,” she settled her eyelids close, eyelashes fanning gently; despite the lack of human features, Marek could tell she was smiling. “Thanks to you!”

Marek smiled just slightly. Moments later, both individuals took their old course.

But not everything was resolved. Marek’s hand lay on top of Dalavut’s hilt beneath his cloak.

And you do not need the nasty blade to be strong.

“It isn’t so simple, Sigrid,” the man whispered, his thought invaded by grim truth — he needed the damned sword to be strong.

He needed the accursed blade to survive.