In the airspace above the compound, two wyverns wheeled in tight circles, making passes on a strange cloud that curled in on itself like a snake. The cloud was quick, moving in three dimensions, ascending and descending in levels as it twisted out of the wyverns’ way. The wyverns lashed out with their teeth, tails, and talons, trying to snatch the elusive cloud. From a distance, it looked like a pair of hawks trying to catch a string of fluff.
Flashes of light sparked between the figures in the twilight air. Branches of lightning grew across the sky, illuminating the blur of fast moving projectiles. The third wyvern lay broken in the dirt, buried in a crater of its own making. Above it all, the orange moon, casting dark light, verging on red, crawled toward its apex.
Beneath the aerial dance, orcs scurried through the outpost. They looked like ants in their crater shaped hive. Some rushed toward the walls, manning the covered ballista to intercept attacking forces. Others shouldered their way past with buckets of dirt, racing to put out the raging fires leaping from building to building. Loud voices cried orders, their words obscured by distance and chaos. The fire was a dull roar, rising in volume to match the pounding feet. The cracking lightning strikes, pops of displaced air, and the wyvern’s screeching war cries provided high notes, like the clash of symbols. Persuasive alarms rang through it all like metronomes.
In a dark building, away from the riot of action, Moka ran for her life. She scrambled up a set of stairs as the entrance to the building shattered to pieces. The orc, clad head to toe in [Mage Armor], gave this wall the same treatment he had given the last. Half the wall caved in, the door blowing inward off its hinges. Feeling the impending danger, Moka lunged for the top of the stairs. Her belly scraping against the landing, scraping free several buttons from her collared shirt, she made the jump. Her lagging body still obeyed her will. Whirling around, she laid eyes on the man she meant to kill.
She watched as two medium-sized flying shields shot into the room like a pair of closing pincers, severing several desks. The goblin [Architect] pressed herself as low as she could on the top of the stairs, tilting her head to hide the red of her eyes. Sweat stained the back of her shirt’s collar. It stuck to her neck like a choker.
Behind the pincers, approaching at a walking pace, nine shields in their base form whipped through the air as though caught in the throes of a tornado. They surrounded a figure covered in sputtering lines of magic. Through the hole in the wall and the storm of shields, Moka glimpsed three of his medium-sized shields inert on the ground. They laid, abandoned, next to her duffel bag across the street.
Moka paused at the orc’s casual destruction, forcing herself to rethink hiding on the second floor. It was a questionable decision now that she knew the shields could chew the floor out from under her. Her mind raced. If three of the armored orc’s magic shields were out of commission, then she had damaged his armor. That was her opening. One glance at the armor’s struggling magic confirmed the theory well enough. The issue was how to get close without the small shields turning her into a bloody mist. She would deal with the problem of facing a seven-foot tall orc in armor while clad in a shirt and jacket when she got there.
Moka’s eyes stayed glued to the orc’s helm, watching his eye slit like a hawk. He stopped outside the building, a single step from entering. His visor turned from side to side, checking his blind spots for an ambush. Smart. Moka’s upper lip pulled up, twisting her features into a snarl. It was the last thing she needed. If Azarus could grant her any Boon, [The Boon of Dumb Enemies] would be her first pick.
The five-foot tall goblin ran through her advantages. The orc had not spotted her yet. She had Azarus’s Skills. Perched on the top of the stairs, she had height. The second she set foot on the ground floor, that advantage disappeared. It was the eternal struggle of goblins everywhere. Thankfully, size was not everything, especially with her god in the mix.
She considered the stone orbs. Maybe she could make a sling like she had against the skinwalker? [Good Enough] would make it viable. However, since she could not reshape the heavy orbs without [Deconstruction]. Throwing the orbs, as is, at the orc was not an option, even if a sling and gravity were her friends in that endeavor. Her pinched, painful shoulder was a regular reminder of how weak she was.
The plate armored orc took a step into the building. His medium shields, moving in concert, shot out to destroy another group of desks directly in front of him. They came down like hammers, flattening the work stations.
With a wave of the orc’s hand, the shields split ways and flew across the room to destroy anything resembling a hiding place. Moka was no genius taction, but she recognized rabbit hunting techniques when she saw them. He was flushing her out.
The shields traveled along the walls of the first floor, wrecking anything in their path. Moka did not have enough time to make a sling and figure out what to throw. She needed to act. All the tools she had were on her person. She would make them work.
The two medium-sized shields were on either side of the room and traveling further back. One punched through a wall, smashing into an office on the other side. The orc watched the center of the room with intense focus, waiting for her to rear her head.
Moka could run straight between the shields. They were on opposite sides and gaining distance from the entrance by the second. The orc was vulnerable, too intent on clearing the ground floor before moving up. All she had to do was get to him faster than a couple of magic flying shields. Easy.
Moka grabbed the lip of the top stair with her good hand and rose to a crouch, her tweed suit pants bunching around her knees. She straightened her arm, bracing herself as she brought both feet up to hang off the ledge. Rocking back, she used her hand to hold her place. Taking a deep breath in through her nose, she let it out slowly.
Once she made her move, there was no going back. Her lips twisted into an ugly grin. The pain tugging at her attention turned to static. She was far beyond going back. Moving helped her ignore everything else. With a lurch, she lunged forward, pulling with all her might.
Moka felt her mass tip, gravity pulling her face first into the stairs. Tensing her core, she pushed with both feet, recruiting every drop of strength she had left. She tried and failed to constrain a grunt of effort. The stairs creaked as she put the material under as much force as she could eke out. Her claws dug into the stairs for traction, cutting into them with a noise like cutting gravel.
The orc’s slit helm snapped up and over, catching her movement despite the clamor outside. His small shields drifted inward to protect him, tightening their guard. He tilted his head back as he caught the flash of flying feet from the top of the stairwell. His medium shields raced back from the far end of the building, where they were smashing through a pair of offices.
Turning in midair, one shield reversed orientation, facing the concave side up. It dipped its point down as it flew. In one swift motion, it dug into the flooring and the foundation beneath, ripping out a chunk to fling at Moka in an underhanded toss. Enough dirt and debris to crush the goblin sailed in an arc, flying with disturbing accuracy toward where Moka would land. The other shield did not slow for a heartbeat, rushing back to its master.
Leaping face first, Moka soared like a tweed clad arrow. [Bolt-thrower] fluttered behind her, held around her neck and shoulder by Granon’s rope. As she pushed off, stretching out with all her might, she estimated she would cut the distance between her and the orc in half. Gravity had other plans. In the heat of the moment, she had forgotten the stones stuffed in her coat pockets. Her coat hung straight down, held taut by the heavy orbs. Falling faster than expected, Moka reached out with her uninjured shoulder, flexing her core to hinge herself in mid-air and raise her hips above her head.
In the heartbeat between processing the fresh development and hitting the floor, Moka had thought. It was much less relevant than the rest that crowded forward, but somehow more clear.
Falling off things as a little girl was coming in handy.
She wished she could tell the village shaman. The ornery hob might feel justified in spending so much effort patching her multitude of bruises and broken bones. It would serve the hob right, and Moka hoped they would feel bad if they knew. The shaman had scolded her like they could forcefully insert their words into the young, careless goblin’s mind. Many times. It had not been pleasant.
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Moka hit the ground with her hand first, the bones in her palm releasing a painful pulse of protest. She absorbed as much force as she could, letting her elbow bend with the motion as she curled her shoulder inward. Her hips traveled over her head, her heels following close behind. She let her arm fold, bringing her bent shoulder to the ground.
Her shoulder hit the floor hard as her lower body flew over her head with force. The splinters in her back dug deeper into her skin. She let the motion take her, rather than fight it. Her body tumbled head over heels. She tried to gather her feet under her. By the time they touched the ground, she was moments away from kissing her own knees. She pushed off with her toes as her forward momentum threw her into another roll.
[Box-thrower] whistled as it whipped through the air around Moka. Its shoulder strap stretched, using her as an anchor and gathering elastic energy.
Unable to find her feet as she came up again, Moka threw herself into another roll. Her pocket full of stones took her in the thigh with a bone aching thud. Just in front of her, a pile of dirt and floorboards slammed into the floor, sending a cloud of dust flying. She completed her roll and gathered her feet under her, her good hand providing a third point of balance.
[Bolt-thrower] finished its arc, smashing against the floor next to her. It snapped.
The loss was a footnote in the goblin’s mind. She pushed off with both feet, borrowing her momentum to jump over the pile of debris. Out of the dust, a sharp, broken floorboard wedged up at an angle emerged. Its splintered end brushed Moka’s shirt, tearing a hole over her stomach as she cleared it. The ground rushed toward her face. She reached out with her hand.
Blunting the impact with a straight arm, Moka went into a familiar roll. When she came up, the room spun. But she was on her feet. Her head felt fuzzy, like she’d spent the day caught in a deer trap. She put one foot in front of the other, running toward the blurry shape covered in sputtering lines. The orc raised his hand, the nine shields in front of him merging into a single medium-sized shield. He maneuvered it to intercept Moka. His other two were already halfway back from across the room, boxing her in.
With her good hand, Moka drew her chisel. This was her best-case scenario. Hesitation was death. She stopped cradling her injured arm, letting it hang loose. The pain raged at the entrance to her mind. She ignored it, entirely focused on her list of next steps.
The chittering war cry of her people resounded in Moka’s ears. It sounded like it contained all the pain and rage she felt. Her throat hurt. She twisted her upper body, treating her injured arm like a whip attached to her body. Pulling on [Deconstruction] with all her might, the sore Skill threatening to tear under the strain, she channeled it to her burned hand. Her thoughts turned to static. Something clicked in her shoulder, sending a jolt and numbing tingle through her arm.
She could not remember closing the distance. The orc loomed large in her vision, a dwarf compared to the skinwalker. Her hand met the shield guarding the orc with a pain so intense her mind went blank.
When Moka came to, she was inside the orc’s guard. She caught the sight of furious brown eyes as a pair of heavy gauntlets descended on her. Piles of material scattered the floor at her feet. On the left side of the orc’s chest, the cracked armor revealed poorly hiding bruised and bleeding flesh beneath. The glowing lines running through the cracked armor sparked, causing the lines connected to them to flicker.
With no room for thoughts or strategies, Moka repeated her last one. She swung her injured arm to intercept the orc’s armored hands, mentally preparing to push [Deconstruction] past its limit. The orc flinched back, fearing to risk his armor against her Skill. Moka saw the opening and took it. She twisted her body in the opposite direction with all her might, lunging forward with her chisel.
Keeping the square blade horizontal, Moka tried to slip it through the orc’s ribs. Surprised, the orc shuffled back. The sharp chisel caught on bone, lacking the force to punch through. Twisting with the blow, the orc ripped the chisel out of Moka’s outstretched hand. She went with the motion, spinning and ducking down to push off the ground with her now-empty hand. Stepping over as far as she could, she spun as she pivoted backwards on that foot, standing up in the same motion. A gauntlet whistled past her ear as she narrowly avoided the orc’s counter attack.
Moka stood behind the orc, facing his armor plated back. She had inadvertently twisted behind him when she dodged. It was a divine stroke of luck. Time seemed to slow as she watched his back twist and flex, an image of a spinning back elbow followed by a brutal hook forming in her mind.
[Deconstruction] was a bundle of pain in Moka’s soul, warning her away from using it. Her chisel stuck out of her opponent’s ribs. She was not strong enough, or in the right position, to hit it in.
The orc’s stance shifted. Moka’s mind raced to capitalize on the situation. A foreign thought entered her thoughts. She felt it emerge from the tapestry of her soul. The knotted pieces of [Course Correct] and [Good Enough] hummed a harmony inside her.
Falling into the familiar steps of shadow walk, the goblin game of stalking their peers, Moka stuck to the orc’s back as he executed the combo she foresaw. She shuffled her feet like she was dancing, feeling tempted to lay a hand on his back to better follow his movements. Alas, she only had one hand, and it was busy.
Moka brought the corner of her coat to her mouth and bit it. While the orc turned to find emptiness where he expected her, she drew her almost forgotten, looted dagger. She pulled her coat taut with her mouth and cut her pocket off. The noise gave her away.
Watching the orc’s back tense, his weight shifting, Moka dropped the dagger and grabbed the end of the cut cloth with her claws. Her sharpened fingertips cut into the fabric, holding it in place. Using her mouth and claws, she twisted the fabric into a handle opposite the pocket, forming a crude blackjack. [Good Enough] sang a note in her soul as she crafted the weapon in a blur.
The orc stepped forward and turned around in one smooth motion. Moka could hear the whistle of his remaining shields approaching. He shuffled back a few steps as soon as he spotted her, trying to put distance between them and buy time. Moka held the heavy pocket of stones in her hand. claws digging into the cloth, and spun.
She let her arm hang, the pocket of stones too heavy for her to muscle into submission. The piercing scent of chemicals from the foundry had disappeared. All she smelled now was the electric tingle of violence. Spinning on her heel, she transferred her weight from one leg to the other, controlling her trajectory as she allowed the blackjack to pull her forward. Her core burned and her back and shoulder muscles screamed as she made three tight rotations. She could feel her claws pull in their nail beds. The pain was intense. She struggled to hang on to the cloth. The war cry of her people grew louder in her ears.
The orc took a defensive position. Too close to dodge, he shuffled back, bringing his armored arms up to block. He positioned his arms over the chisel, blocking it from view and preparing to deflect. His mistake was underestimating how much weight the goblin was lugging around.
Moka’s stone-filled pocket hit the large orc’s arms with such force it crushed his guard, forcing his arms inwards before he could parry. Her good shoulder wrenched in the socket on impact. The force of the blow pushed the orc’s forearm into the hilt of the chisel, driving it into his lung. He stepped back on his heel, too stubborn to fall. His shields were hurtling toward Moka. He took a gurgling breath and coughed, blood spraying from his helm. His hate filled brown eyes bore into Moka’s ruby reds.
She dropped the makeshift blackjack. Her abs were on fire. It hurt to breathe. All her small failures added up. She felt lopsided with one pocket full of stones and no time to remove them. The pain threatened to consume her, like the consequences of being weak were being branded into her body.
Moka forced herself to move. Her body protested. She clamped down on that feeling, forcing her body to do what she commanded. As long as she drew breath, she would take the next step. Shrugging out of her coat, her shoulders moving like rusty gears, she lifted her foot. Her bruised thigh buckled. She lurched forward, as much keeping her feet under her as running. Blood and sweat soaked her shirt, making it cling to her skin. The splinters in her back felt like dozens of stinging wasps.
The remaining shields were closing in. She could practically feel the wind of their approach buffeting her. Her mind willed her legs to move. She stumbled toward her recovering opponent, one hand hanging limp at her side. [Deconstruction] was a pulsing knot of pain in her soul, recovering more slowly the more she abused it. She begged it for just a little more, a single image in her mind as she reached for the hilt of the chisel.
The orc, coming to his senses, took a step back to maneuver away from her wild lunge. Moka stretched out her fingers like she was grasping for a lifeline. A single claw grazed the chisel’s hilt. White light flashed at the point of contact. The light filled the chisel, growing brighter until it obscured the tool’s outline.
With a flash, the chisel burst into dozens of small, razor sharp metal triangles, imitations of the orc’s flying shields. They flew in all directions. Some clattered on the floor, others peppering Moka with minor cuts. The orc’s ribcage prevented the upper two-thirds of the chisel from flying out. Moka flopped onto the ground belly first, absolutely spent, her ears filled with a soft sigh and the sound of clattering metal.
Her will was the only thing that forced her to move. She needed to rest, badly. The fatigue could not stop her from facing her outcome. If the orc was robust enough to survive that, then it had all been for naught. She needed to see with her own eyes.
With a momentous effort of will, Moka rolled over. She craned her neck toward the orc, half expecting to see a shield, then blackness. A muscle in her neck seized, strained from her frantic rolls. Letting out a low groan, she fought through it. Despite her expectations, nothing loomed over her. She struggled to prop herself up on one elbow, no longer possessing an injury free arm. Armor was on her wish list for Azarus.
Beside her, Moka found a collapsed suit of armor. Face down, it almost looked empty. The medium-sized shields were a couple feet away, too late to turn the tide. Moka grinned, her cheeks aching. She would just lay down for a couple minutes, then see about making herself some armor and saving Azarus the hassle. Surely, he would not begrudge her that.