Chapter One hundred and five
I might be a little rusty, last I’ve done this was over two hundred years ago. Master Fenar stated as he stepped towards the two orks who were busy throwing insults at each other in the middle of the room, surrounded by a crowd that slowly started to cheer for one or the other, as if this was nothing but a sporting event. I still had no idea what Fenar had in mind, but I began to suspect the greenskinned couple were in for a surprise. Then, I felt my Mana Pool ticking down. 1 MP, then another, then 2 MP, then two more, going over to Master Fenirig Arte. I could feel my Mana responding to his will, making the journey over to him in a split second, spreading out into his soul through the node. By the time he had taken the five steps separating us from the orks, he looked and felt ready to unleash whatever Mana-aided powermove he had in store.
‘Ya skinny fuggen gank, stay da fugg outa mah way…’ Big Wroogh turned his menacing attention to Master Fenar.
‘Oi, the hell ya think yer doin’ …’ Raagstrom Raagh also let his dissatisfaction known.
Neither of them got to finish their sentences.
In a sudden surge, at least 20 MP rushed out of my pool, maybe even more, joining the amount he had already drawn. Before any of the spectators — including me — could even blink, the Master of Third Rangers erupted in blue fire. My non-existent heart nearly stopped; I thought he was about to do a Mana-Blast, the same Mana-based skill I had used on several occasions to devastating effect. But another second passed, and everyone in the room was still standing intact as opposed to being heaps of flesh and bone mushed to a pulp, so it wasn’t that. But the blue fire in which the elf was wreathed did not dissipate. It was there, and it was Mana. Sure, even physical creatures could see the spiritual substance occasionally, mostly as fleeting flashes, lasting half a second at a time. But the stuff around Fenar? How on earth was he doing that? And why?
He didn’t give me any time to figure it out; he moved, and the Mana-fire moved with him, leaving a smeary streak of blue behind. He was faster than I would have been able to see, had I been still using human eyes. The elven death-machine jumped between the two orks, each of them almost twice his size, and in the same fraction of the same second he grabbed both of them by their belts, lifted them off the ground, twirled them around like a pair of ugly yoyos, and slammed them down. All in a second or less. The wooden planks serving as floorboards cracked, and if not for the large rug, we’d have been showered with splinters. Everyone jumped back, pressing themselves against the four walls of the room — orks, humans, even Fenar’s rangers — their eyes widening with various degrees of shock and terror. To me the real shock was the way he used Mana. I could immediately tell that unlike Krissy, Kiwa, or other spiritualists I’d seen, he wasn’t using the blue stuff to give his muscles extra strength, his bones extra hardness, and extra protection to his body against impacts. Mana was flowing outside of his body, surrounding him and basically carrying him along. When he lifted the green brutes off the ground, he was simply providing vectors and directions via his own movements, and Mana did the heavy lifting on its own. This was nothing like Krissy or the late Jevan producing flying Mana-blades — the sheer mental control and finesse Fenar must have had to do this was insane.
‘Hank, you taking notes?’ I asked, completely awed.
‘Hell yeah I’m taking notes,’ he whispered, completely awed.
We’ve got to learn how to do that! Krissy stated, blinking rapidly underneath her mask, completely awed.
Another second passed; everyone was staring, completely awed. Big Wroogh and Raagstrom Raagh were groaning in pain, writhing in the small craters in the floor, and above them stood Fenar, spiritual fire burning bright and blue around him. It was a sight to behold, evoking a slew of emotions ranging from elation and adoration for a great hero, to ice-cold fear in the presence of a monster called the Hellspawn.
‘And this is how we’re all relegated to be side characters in our own story,’ I remarked bitterly, remembering that Fenar was using my Mana, and I could close the tap at any moment.
Maybe I should just settle down and write books. “The Adventures of the Hellspawn, and why no-one should mess with him”. That will be the title. Krissy commented, managing to calm down in the process.
No good, boss, we already have that book back home. The title’s different, though. Popular with children. Kiwa chimed in, grinning underneath her mask.
Fenar placed one foot on Big Wroogh's chest, eliciting a squeal from him, but the man was looking at us. Well, at Krissy.
I can hear every damn word. He said, his thought-voice matching the still “burning” Mana-flames in intensity.
‘Shit!’ I yelped, whipping every single tentacle in my possession in a belated effort to slap my mouth shut, forgetting the fact I didn’t have one.
Fenar simply shook his head like a disappointed father looking at the stupidest of all his kids, then turned his attention to the orks at his feet.
Alright, you fuckers, now you’re going to listen! He sent his thunderous thoughts to them. The two green fellows twisted their necks to look up at his blazing form, and grunted their agreements. Fenar continued. That Gralnohr fellow back than had more spine than the two of you combined, you sorry sacks of shit. I remember I felt a little bad that I had to kill him, and that’s something I’m not feeling right now about you pair of pissants. Oh, if he could see what his people had become, he’d have to make the tough choice between breaking down in tears or to just beat you all to a bloody pulp one by one. Anyway, long story short, I have some good news for you green bastards.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
The teenagers, the women, the slaves, and even the rangers were deathly quiet. The first ones to move were the two greenskinned women; my guess was that they probably thought it wasn’t polite to be naked in the presence of mythical figures, so they decided to gather their clothes. Their cautious, fumbling effort to get dressed, and the fact the Fenar didn’t do anything to punish their impudence, seemed to have served as encouragement for others to speak up.
‘Da skinny gank … really is da Hellspawn,’ Big Wroogh wheezed the words, his eyes on fiery Fenar, a nice mix of awe and terror showing on his face.
‘Told ya,’ Raagstrom Raagh squeaked like a little bird, evidently in a lot of pain.
Fenar took his foot off Big Wroogh’s chest. The ork breathed in — I thought I heard some of his ribs cracking — and Fenar gave the pair of them a couple of seconds to clamber to a sitting position.
‘Wot’s da good news, Hellspawn?’ Big Wroogh inquired warily.
A scary smile crept up on Fenar’s scarred face, partially obscured by Mana-fire.
I was considering cutting him off from my Mana Pool — as cool and scary as it was, he’d been having those blue flames going for half a minute now, and I calculated that it was costing me roughly 17 MP per minute against my 19 EP per minute Essence collection rate. With my EP to MP conversion rate just around 1 EP to 0.5 MP, this was a rather expensive trick. I could have had at least four people covered in Mana-Armour for that price. But this was sort of an important negotiation — if one could call it that — and I could keep it up for some time without impairing my ability to protect Krissy and myself. Besides, knowing how persuasive Fenar could be, I was sure this was going to be done in five minutes.
I’m glad you asked. The elf said, his grin growing. Out of my grudging respect for the big asshole back then, I’m willing to help you idiots. I heard you’re not keen on the so-called mystics running your little shitshow, so I brought the best fighters with me to give you a hand. Oh, and a couple of my own mystics too, just to have an edge.
‘Ya … wanna go helpin’ the Clan?’ Big Wroogh asked, standing up rather shakily, his joints clacking and creaking like a hundred-year-old rocking chair. Raagstrom Raagh followed his example, clambering to his feet in a similarly wobbly fashion, but neither of them complained or showed any sign of pain.
Not for free. Fenar stated.
‘Wot ya wanna go takin’ from us?’ the big one asked.
‘Gank wants ‘em pointy eared slaves. The new ones,’ Raagstrom Raagh informed him.
‘Ooooh. Dat it? I ain’t gon stop ‘im takin’ any of ‘em skinnies, no problem. Wot else?’
An oath from your Clan that none of you bastards will ever come to our place to take slaves or to do anything else. At all. Ever. Fenar presented his demand.
And with that, my suspicion was confirmed as to why Fenar was suddenly so willing to help these miscreants to fight a well-established and dangerous clan leadership. For him — and for the elves of Solace by extension — getting their people back and destroying the galleys, ports and shipbuilding capabilities, was a somewhat long-term solution. To help the rebels achieve a regime change and getting a security guarantee in return, was an even longer-term solution, and I guessed Fenar didn’t want to let this chance go to waste. Even if it would cost the lives of some of his rangers. This was both a political and military decision, and knowing the kind of clout he had in Solace, plus his wife being a senior member of the Solace government, I imagined he’d easily get away with it. Well, depending on the results.
Big Wroogh and Raagstrom Raagh looked at each other, the hatchet buried already, some sort of non-verbal communication taking place between the two brutes.
‘If ya ganks help kill dat fuggen Skraath Ironbite and his shitgreen, pissdrinkin’ mystics, da Vraathkill will go swearin’ an oath to da Hellspawn,’ the big ork answered.
That was good enough for Fenar, and he finally let the blue fire around him die down, easing the strain on my Mana Pool. The rest of the rangers, and to a lesser extent the orks, looked a little confused — they had only heard bits and pieces of the conversation — and they were all waiting for their respective bosses to make an announcement. When Big Wroogh dusted himself down and told the teenagers and the women that the long-awaited end of the mystics was happening tonight, their eyes danced with joy and something else I could only interpret as an eager anticipation of violence.
Big Wroogh then sent everyone except Raagstrom Raagh — even Trevor and the other two slaves — to go and get the band together, instructing them to tell all willing participants to meet up at a certain location in town and wait for him and the Hellspawn to come and lead them to victory. Judging by the chatter on the comm-node the teenagers were on, there was going to be no shortage of willing participants, in fact, they were expecting at least half of the city’s residents to quickly arm themselves and march against the spirit-aided tyranny of ork shamans.
Fenar told his men what was going to happen, and presented them with a new plan, a plan I thought was quite decent for something he had just made up on the fly. The only issue was that while five of the ranger teams — led by Tovaron Ento — would follow some of Big Wroogh’s orks to the part of town where the slaves were kept, Krissy and I would have to stick with Fenar and provide him with Mana and tentacle support, so he could fight at his best if it came to that. Which I was sure it would.
Big Wroogh rummaged through something that vaguely resembled a wardrobe — several rough planks arranged in a certain way, basically — and pulled out a leather vest for himself. After some more searching and swearing, he produced a shield and an axe that was almost larger than Krissy, as well as a meat-cleaver-looking weapon for Raagstrom Raagh. He then turned to Fenar, and said,
‘Awright, Hellspawn, da fight gon be tough. Fuggen mystics ain’t no joke, and Skraath Ironbite ain’t da merciful sort. Ya can go pullin’ dat fire-thing on ‘em?’
Huh! I can do more than that. If all else fails, I’ll set a Tentacle Horror on them. Fenar said gleefully, laughing like a B-movie villain.
‘I like this plan,’ Hank commented, the elven warmachine’s dangerous mood rubbing onto him already.
Kevin, we’re going to be fine, right? We can handle this, right? Krissy asked, her confidence level seemingly lower, matching mine more than Hank’s.
‘Yeah. We should be fine,’ I assured her.
Because why wouldn’t we be fine? Fenar was a monster, Big Wroogh was a literal monster, I was a spiritual monster, and if that wasn’t enough, half a city’s worth of orks would be there to back us up. And if things went south? We just needed to buy enough time for Toven to evacuate the captured elves, and we could bail and let the orks play by themselves. What could go wrong?