Chapter 64

  High Lord Michel hobbled through the streets of Batulan-bar on a pair of makeshift crutches made from discarded fence posts around his property. Melisende walked behind him, keeping a hand on his back as they stumbled forward, trying not to be knocked over by the crowds surging around them. Everyone was fleeing toward the center of the city and Drakko Square, trying to escape the violence near the canyon walls and around the city entrances.

  Michel wished he hadn’t ventured into the city. He should have just borne the pain and let his feet heal on their own. But he had wanted a speedy recovery, and the only healer who had been willing to see him had been a back-alley beastkin doctor on the west side of Batulan-bar. That and Melisende’s complaints that they didn’t have anything fine to eat had driven them into the city, and now they were wrapped up in the wrath of Drakko’s Mountain Guard.

  The doctor hadn’t healed both Michel’s feet. Halfway through the procedure, she had figured out who he was and refused to give him any further treatment. He should have known just wearing old servant’s clothes and a hat wouldn’t have been enough to hide his identity. Everyone knew the most important man in Batulan-bar.

  Though the butler’s clothes he wore were enough to let him blend in with the crowd. With the orcs on their heels, no one was paying particular attention to what or who was around them. Shouts of battle and clashing steel rang out over the din of the fearful crowd. Gouts of fire shot into the air or landed on nearby buildings. A few foolhardy beastkin citizens attempted to save their homes from the flames by forming a bucket brigade connecting a blazing building to one of the city fountains. They didn’t understand how pointless their effort was. The fires would continue to flare up until the entire city was consumed.

  “I don’t understand,” Melisende wailed. “Why don’t we just surrender ourselves to the Guard? Surely, they know who we are.”

  “You better hope they don’t know who we are, darling,” Michel chided her. “We don’t have Drakko’s protection anymore, and orcs take great pleasure in torturing humans, especially those of our caste after we’ve been thrown to the wolves.”

  He heard his wife whimper and saw a tear sliding down her cheek. Things had been strained between them ever since Dalex arrived, but Michel still didn’t like seeing her so afraid. He didn’t know what he could say or do that would comfort her, not when he knew the truth. He and the other humans of Batulan-bar had failed Drakko. The entire city was forfeit. Drakko likely intended to start from scratch.

  Which meant neither he nor Melisende were going to see tomorrow.

  And still they followed the crowds, hoping for a few more hours or even just minutes of life, though Michel might be the only person in the city who knew how truly doomed they all were. Even Dalex of the Expedition Seven couldn’t stop what was coming now.

  A high-pitched scream peeled out of the crowd behind them. A meaty chopping sound and a wail of pain followed it. The frenzy of the fleeing city dwellers grew.

  Melisende glanced back over her shoulder. Her face went pale, and she pressed harder on Michel’s back, urging him to speed up. “I can see one of them Mikky. Oh, scales, he’s hideous.”

  Michel tried to hobble faster. The crutches were too cumbersome. When he put weight on his still injured foot to try to move just a little bit quicker, pain shot up through his leg and almost knocked him out. Even his fear couldn’t override his bodily instinct to favor his wound. That damn elf bitch. She would probably smile if she could see him now. What good was that kirtevas spell doing her now? Had it been worth shooting him in the feet?

  The mob surged and he was knocked forward. His crutches went out from under him. He barely avoided breaking his nose on the cobblestone by throwing his arms in front of his face. A thousand elves and beastkin flowed around him. Most managed to avoid stepping on him, but not all. Michel curled into a ball. His barrier protected him from the blunt impact of their boots, but it didn’t stop him from being shoved around.

  He realized someone was touching his side, leaning over him. Melisende was still with him. She hadn’t been knocked down. Michel thought for sure she would have kept going.

  “Go, darling,” he urged her. “Leave me.”

  She only shook her head and clutched his clothes tightly. Whether it was for protection, future opportunity, or maybe even love, she wouldn’t let go.

  The crowd thinned. Michel was able to uncurl and sit up. His foot hurt worse than anything he had ever felt before. Had someone stepped on it in the surge? With Melisende’s help, he tried to get back onto his crutches. They stopped when they heard a grunting noise behind them and then sniffing.

  A deep, rough voice rumbled, “Smells like humans.” More sniffing. “Smells clean.”

  Michel rolled over. One of the orcs loomed over him, great axe in hand. The beast stared down at him, a wicked look in his eye. Two of the orc’s fellows lumbered up behind him, licking their lips and hefting their weapons.

  “Save these two for later,” the first orc said. “They will be fun.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Melisende squeezed Michel’s arm. Panic flooded in from her touch, adding to Michel’s own. He threw out a hand and shouted, “Torsclap strikes you with lightning!”

  From the clouds came a bolt of energy that zapped the lead orc in the top of his head. But the lightning did not actually touch a hair on the orc’s head. It diffused as it hit a barrier, not even arcing to the other orcs or scorching the ground.

  The orc chuckled as he raised his axe. “I break human. Have fun later.”

  Melisende screamed as the orc brought his axe down on Michel’s stomach. It struck Michel’s own barrier and bounced as the invisible shield shattered. Some of the force traveled past the barrier and knocked Michel’s breath out. He curled in on himself again, wheezing and gasping to breathe. Melisende clutched his arm tighter.

  “Tough,” the orc rumbled in frustration, raising his axe again. “But not so tough.”

  Michel pushed Melisende away as the axe descended for a second time. He didn’t want to see her hurt, even if he knew his protection couldn’t last. Reflex forced him to do everything he could to save her. And, disconsolate as the thought was, perhaps he would die before he witnessed her pain.

  He watched the crescent blade descend. He admired how the light gleamed off its edge. And he was shocked when a bare fist slammed into the flat of the blade and shattered it.

  The axe head exploded into fragments that scattered over Michel’s body, slicing a few shallow cuts in his face and chest but not bisecting him as it had been on course to do. The fist was followed by a muscled damekin with deer ears and a white tail. She knocked aside the bladeless haft of the axe and threw a punch into the orc’s chest that blew away his barrier and knocked the brute on his back.

  While the orc struggled back to his feet, his two comrades dove toward the damekin, axes flashing faster than Michel could see. The damekin, clad in the uniform of a Batulan-bar mutt hunter, expertly shifted her weight back and danced away from the orc blades. The orcs pursued her, but were pushed back by a vibrant green cloud of needle-like projectiles.

  Michel looked back and saw a young male elf standing several feet away, a sword on his hip and his hands out, apparently directing the deadly cloud. As Michel watched, he noticed little bits of grass falling out of the cloud to settle on the street, and he realized all of the tiny missiles were living blades of grass. Most of the grass deflected off the orcs’ barriers, but some of the tiny blades managed to punch through their defenses and pierce their exposed skin. Green blood poured out of a hundred puncture wounds, dripping down the orcs’ armor and painting the street green.

  “You scare me when you get in so close,” the elf called to the damekin. “What happened to your sword, Oyuun?”

  “I never liked that thing,” the damekin said, shifting from side to side and holding her fists up at the level of her cheeks like a street tough. “I only used a sword because my fists couldn’t break mutt bones.”

  While the orcs endured a gale of razor-sharp blades of grass, the damekin danced around them, looking for a chance to dive in and start punching again. She found her moment and struck, trying to reach the head of the closest orc with her fist. Despite the many vicious wounds the orc had sustained, he was ready for her. He turned and swung his axe at her side. She ducked low, sacrificing her chance to strike to avoid the edge of the blade.

  Before she could dodge back, the orc let go of his axe and backhanded her with a closed fist. The blow hit her in the shoulder and sent her flying into the side of a building on the other side of the street. A brick wall collapsed on her, and she disappeared in a pile of rubble and smoke.

  “Oyuun!” the male elf called, voice filled with panic. He drew his sword and shouted, “My sword is a spear!”

  The weapon in his hands changed shape. The blade shortened and the handle lengthened until he grasped a much longer weapon with both hands. Shouting another spell, he charged toward the orcs, putting himself between them and Michel and Melisende. “With partaruo, even the grass becomes my blade!”

  In addition to the still lingering cloud of razor-like grass, more greenery was ripped from the cracks between the cobblestone and from a nearby overgrown lot. The grass flowed around him in concentric rings and then rushed toward the orcs, shredding away at their magical and physical armor. The elf struck with the spear at the same time, weaving between the orcs and stabbing them as if he was one with the storm of grass.

  While he fought, the rubble covering Oyuun stirred. A layer of brick slid away and the girl stood up out of the pile, her hair unkempt and her face bloodied. She spit a glob of dusty mucus onto the street and stalked out of the ruins of the building, covered in dust. Before she joined her friend in the melee, she grabbed Michel by his collar and dragged him away from the fight.

  “You need to get clear,” she grumbled.

  “Th— thank you,” Michel stammered. Melisende nodded as she followed, clutching Michel’s sleeve.

  Oyuun flinched and looked down at him. Her eyes widened, and Michel saw recognition dawn. She knew his voice. She knew his face.

  “You,” she said, and Michel was certain she would kill him right there.

  But she only shook her head and dragged him another few yards before letting him go. “Find someplace safe.”

  With that, she left, running back to her friend to rejoin the fight. Melisende helped Michel to his feet. He looked back, watching as the damekin and elf stood toe to toe with three of the most terrifying creatures in all the worlds of Gaia.

  “Darling, come,” Melisende said forcefully. “We need to go.”

  Michel nodded quietly and let her put one of his arms over her shoulder as she led him away toward Drakko’s Square. When they were a block away from the fighting, the sky lit orange. Michel looked up to see a funnel of fire growing over the city to the north. The flames grew larger as he hobbled, probably the result of multiple orcs working together to create an inferno that would consume half the city. The cloud of fire hung over Batulan-bar, casting Michel’s and Melisende’s shadows around them like the hands on a clock, counting down to when the firestorm would fall and burn them to ash.

  And then, as the fire began to descend, an enormous rock outcropping shot out of the canyon wall in the fire’s path. The sound of rock grinding against rock filled the air all through the canyon. The edge of the horizontal wall nearly reached to the river. It swathed half the city in darkness.

  The firestorm slammed against the wall and fizzled out. The rock stood firm, and then, before it could collapse under its own weight, it retracted back into the canyon wall.

  Michel knew the word of power that had made the rock outcropping. He almost never bothered to learn the lexicons of any mutt hunters, but he had made an exception for Lodge Mother Seteg Sarnai.

  For a moment, his perception of the battle for Batulan-bar changed. One publicized earth mage against a thousand publicized fire orcs; intellectually, Michel knew it was not enough, but he hoped. Maybe he would still be breathing at the end of the day.

  Probably not, but maybe.

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