Chapter 28: Firehand's Reckoning
The steam engine roared beneath Drakgar’s feet, a relentless growl that mirrored the fire in his chest. The platform trembled with every churn of its metal guts, the vibrations crawling up his legs and settling into his bones. Around him, the other orcs strained and sweated, hauling boulders across the steel surface. Their guttural grunts mixed with the hiss of steam, the rhythmic clink of chains, and the ever-present metallic symphony of the convoy.
Drakgar gripped the rough hemp rope that connected him to the monstrous slab of granite behind him. His hands, callused from decades of war and labor, welcomed the coarse bite of the fibers. The boulder dug a path in the iron floor as he hauled it inch by inch. Pain blossomed in his shoulders and thighs, each step a battle, each moment a prayer to his willpower. Pain is the purifier. Pain tempers the body, and the body is the vessel for the mind. If the vessel cracks, the mind spills out into madness.
Drakgar's eyes narrowed at the horizon of endless, rolling platforms, each a miniature world of labor and training. They were part of the convoy, hundreds of platforms lashed together, moving endlessly across the war-scarred plains. Each was a cog in their nomadic war machine, a reminder that the world had no room for weakness. Especially not for him. Not now. Not when the ninth essence ritual loomed like a predator at his throat.
“Seventy-eight crystals harvested last week. Forty-three consumed to power the convoy. Reserves are holding steady at—” intoned a flat, clipped voice.
“Not enough,” Drakgar growled through gritted teeth, his breath coming in short, searing gasps. The boulder behind him felt heavier with every heartbeat, the rope cutting into his palms like a blade. Blood welled in shallow cuts where the fibers had bitten deep, but he ignored it. The body could endure. It had to.
He cast a sidelong glance at the orc woman his wife had sent as his “assistant.” Her name was Ashra, though she was no more assistant than a taskmaster. She stood with her ledger clutched to her chest, her sharp, calculating eyes scanning the platform. Her hair was shaved on one side, the remaining strands braided tightly in the orcish fashion, though the precision of it suggested she lacked the chaotic violence of a true warrior.
Ashra continued, her voice never breaking rhythm. “Informants report that the elves have discovered one of the key ingredients for the alloy.”
Drakgar spat on the ground, his saliva tinged with the taste of iron and smoke. “The elves are their own problem. Humans and dwarves will see to that soon enough. They’re stretched thin already. No sense losing more valuable elven to experiments when their kind might die under human blades and dwarven hammers.”
Ashra raised an eyebrow. “Then where does the threat lie, Firehand?”
He stopped, planting his feet firmly and letting the rope slacken. The boulder groaned to a halt behind him, and his shoulders sagged with temporary relief. He turned to glare at her, his golden eyes hard and unyielding. “The goblins.”
She nodded, unsurprised. “There are two guilds pushing for it. One is ahead in the race, but they’ve burned through their talent—sacrificed them to the process. They’re hemorrhaging coin to recruit new minds.”
“Then we back the other,” Drakgar said without hesitation, yanking the rope taut again. The boulder resumed its reluctant journey forward. “Send an emissary.”
“To offer them the recipe?”
Drakgar barked a laugh, low and cold. “No. Let them crawl. The ones sacrificing fewer lives will win in the long run. The other guild can burn through their coffers all they like, but talent doesn’t grow back. Even goblins can only buy so much before there’s nothing left to spend.”
“And what if your guild loses momentum?” Ashra pressed. “The Skystriders of their competitors could drive them out before—”
“They won’t.” Drakgar cut her off. “We’ll ensure their coffers stay full. An exclusivity contract to sell the food we grow in our Greenhouses will give them the coin they need and keep them tied to our leash.”
Ashra tilted her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Clever.”
Drakgar didn’t reply. The boulder was almost at the edge of the platform now, his legs trembling under the strain. Ashra flipped to another page of her notes. “The humans are asking for more essence crystals. They’re offering substantial amounts of food in exchange.”
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Sell them a hundred. Get as much food as possible. If the greenhouse project fails, we’ll need the reserves.”
Ashra opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, another presence arrived—a hand on her shoulder, soft but firm. She turned and met the gaze of Drakgar’s wife Kora, who nodded silently. Ashra bowed her head and stepped back, leaving them alone.
Drakgar dropped the rope, letting the boulder sit idle as he turned toward Kora. Her engineer’s clothes clung to her, damp from the engine room’s heat, smudged with grease and sweat. The sun glinted off the silver tools at her belt, but her face shone brighter. She was a vision of strength and beauty, and he was reminded, as always, that she was the only thing in this cursed world that could still make him feel alive.
Drakgar turned toward his wife, the weight of the day melting away as their eyes met. Without hesitation, he crossed the distance between them, his calloused hands cupping her face. The grime and tension of the world vanished as he pressed his lips to hers, the kiss fierce and unyielding.
When they broke apart, Kora’s lips curved into a rare, knowing smile. “It’s time,” she said softly.
Drakgar swallowed hard, his gaze lingering on her face. If the essence ritual failed, this might be the last time he would see her. But if he succeeded… No. Failure wasn’t an option.
“I’ll come back,” he said, his voice resolute.
Her smile didn’t falter, but her hand tightened briefly on his arm. Neither of them believed in promises, only in actions.
And for Drakgar Firehand, actions were all that remained.
Drakgar and Kora stepped onto the narrow iron bridge that swayed slightly with the rumbling motion of the convoy. Beneath them, the distant roar of the steam engines served as a reminder of their people's relentless drive. The bridge connected two immense platforms, both teeming with orcs engaged in various forms of labor and training. Above, a crimson sunset bled across the sky, casting everything in hues of blood and fire.
Waiting at the center of the bridge was the Chief Shaman, a hunched, sinewy figure wrapped in ceremonial robes of black and gold. His staff, crowned with a crystal that glimmered faintly in the dying light, tapped the metal floor as he turned to face them. His face was a maze of scars and tattoos, his eyes clouded with age yet brimming with power.
“The chambers are ready, Firehand,” the Chief Shaman rasped, his voice weathered like the bark of an ancient tree. “The essence crystal and the high shamans await. You’ve prepared yourself?”
Drakgar’s jaw tightened. “I’ve trained for this my whole life. Pain tempers the vessel.”
The shaman’s gaze lingered on him, assessing, before he gave a solemn nod. “The ninth ritual is among the most unforgiving. Only General Throgar broke though the ninth barrier. He spoke of agony that would rend the soul itself—he said it was worse than the tenth, perhaps even the eleventh.”
Drakgar snorted, a flicker of grim humor in his golden eyes. “May Throgar find glorious war in Kaelos’s halls. If his spirit was right, I’ll soon learn the truth. But I’m no fool. The twelfth will be my end. I’m not Throgar to attempt sixteen.”
The Chief Shaman studied him a moment longer, then inclined his head in approval. “Wise. Even ambition must bow to the limits of flesh.”
Kora remained silent at Drakgar’s side, though her presence was steady and grounding. She stepped forward slightly, her hand brushing his arm. “He’ll succeed,” she said simply, her voice firm. There was no doubt, no question.
The shaman’s lips curled into a faint smile, a rare expression for one so steeped in death and ritual. “May Kaelos favor you, Firehand. Let us proceed.”
He turned and led them off the bridge, descending a grated ramp toward the deeper recesses of the platform. The air grew heavier with every step, thick with the pungent aroma of burning incense and the metallic tang of raw essence. The sound of drums echoed faintly from the chambers below, a steady beat like the pulse of the earth itself.
As they reached the threshold of the ritual chamber, the Chief Shaman paused and turned to Kora. “You may not enter, Engineer. Only those bound to the ritual may witness it.”
Kora’s eyes flicked to Drakgar, and for a fleeting moment, her stoic expression softened. “Don’t make me come in there to drag you out.”
Drakgar smirked, his tusks glinting in the low light. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
With that, she stepped back, allowing the shaman to lead Drakgar into the chamber. The heavy iron door groaned as it closed behind them, sealing him inside a space that reeked of power and promise.
The chamber was a cavern of stone and steel, its walls inscribed with runes that pulsed faintly with blue light. At its center, a dais of obsidian rose from the floor, surrounded by high shamans seated in a circle. Each of them bore a staff crowned with crystals of various hues, their faces obscured by shadow and smoke.
Atop the dais lay the essence crystal, a massive shard of pure energy that seemed to hum with a life of its own. Its light flickered, casting strange, shifting patterns across the room.
The Chief Shaman motioned for Drakgar to ascend. “Take your place, Firehand. The ninth barrier awaits.”
Drakgar stepped forward, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. He climbed the steps, each one heavier than the last, until he stood before the crystal. He placed his hands upon its surface, feeling the raw power coursing through it, searing his palms like molten metal.
The drums outside grew louder, faster, until they merged with the pounding of his own blood. The high shamans began to chant, their voices weaving a tapestry of ancient words that resonated deep within his bones.
And then the pain began.