Chapter Sixty-one

Krissintha Arlonet Dar Ghelain was flying for the first time in her life. Well, she was up in the air some three or four paces over the deck, and she could feel Kevin’s ice-cold power wrapped around her. This wasn’t really flying though, was it? The spirit was just holding her up as if she was a rag-doll. How … undignifying.

Still, it was something that had never even occurred to her as a possibility, just as it had never occurred to any spiritualist she had personally known. Or heard of. Familiars did not have the power to treat their hosts as luggage. It was the other way around, wasn’t it?

Suddenly she remembered those nights at the training ground’s barrack, when falling asleep on the floor or a chair had somehow resulted in waking up the next morning, tucked into her bed. It had happened more than once or twice.

She should have realized it sooner. Kevin could grab and move objects — the “poltergeist effect” as he called it, whatever that meant. On one hand, she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the revelation. On the other, Kevin was Kevin; dangerous, but probably the least malevolent and most helpful of all evil spirits in existence. Perhaps he deserved at least a “thank you” for not letting her sleep on the floor when she had been too exhausted to make it to her bed. And for making sure she always had something to eat when she had no strength left to go to the cafeteria. And for making sure she had been bathing somewhat regularly — she would have not done that without his nagging, not during training. Training under Fenar and Toven had been the harshest-hardest thing she had ever done.

Oh.

Krissintha realized, this time without the shadow of a doubt, how unswerving her familiar’s support was.

‘Thanks, Kevin,’ she whispered.

Ahh … don’t thank me yet, it’s not easy to move like this. I can’t even tell if you’re heavy or not.

‘I’m not heavy,’ she protested immediately.

Light as a feather. Right. I’m gonna move you now.

She saw power around her for a moment, she felt the “tentacle hug” tightening, and she started inching forward in the air.

She could only hear the gasps and whispered prayers of the ranger and the woman standing behind her, but she could see the orks and their slaves in front of her just fine.

So far she’d seen nothing but rage and murder in their eyes. Now however, they looked like scared, green puppies, eyes wide, mouths hung open, slowly backing away from her as she “floated” towards them. It seemed they hadn’t heard of a flying spiritualist either.

The line of spearmen and archers took a collective step back. The captain of the ship looked at his remaining crew and gathered his courage. He picked up his oversized cutlass he had previously discarded during his outburst and pointed it at Krissintha.

Blue power immediately flashed around the blade. The weapon yanked itself out of the brute’s hand and sailed through the air, stopping before her. She reached out to touch it, and as she did, the sword vanished. Probably into Jack’s Room. This whole affair felt … familiar.

The ork looked suitably shocked by the disappearing sword act. He looked around frantically, and picked up the nearest object. The large, wood-bound book. He threw it at Krissintha’s head. Maybe “facebook attacks” were a thing after all. The book disappeared into thin air before reaching her, following the sword into the mysterious storage room.

The ork’s face went from a mossy but somewhat vivid green to a pale, almost yellowish colour. Like dried grass.

‘To the cabins ya ...’ he barked an order to his troops.

Power flashed at his face before he could finish the sentence. His head snapped to the side, black blood spraying from his mouth.

‘Did you just … slap him?’ Krissintha whispered.

Yep.

The orks face snapped to the other side, blood splattering to the floor.

‘Again?’

Yep.

Then the closest of the human slaves, a spearman, screamed. His body lifted off the ground, and he rose above his cohorts, floating closer to Krissintha helplessly, his arms and legs flailing. Then the man went limp, his head dropped, and he was dead. Kevin tossed the dead body right at the feet of the ork captain. Krissintha shuddered and felt like she should be screaming. She held it back admirably.

Your turn. Talk him into surrendering. You’re good at that. Kevin whisper-thought his instructions to her.

The captain of the barbarian ship, Orkuz Graal, looked at the dead human at his feet, then looked up at her. Krissintha wasn’t sure how to interpret the overall expression on an ork’s face, but the look in his eyes were easy to decipher. Fear. It was definitely fear, and not a small amount of it. Krissintha knew she had nothing to fear from her familiar, and there was no time left to waste on her own, instinctual terror. She was supposed to be in charge of this situation, and it was time to act like it.

‘Your souls are mine,’ she growled as loudly as she could, keeping her voice low and cold, while also sending the words through the voice-chat. ‘You and yours shall be my gift to the King of Hell. Eternal suffering awaits!’

Then she graced the captain with the most evil-sounding chuckle she could manage, imitating an actor she had once seen on stage, portraying the villain of the play. It made her throat dry and itchy.

She didn’t know if barbarians were superstitious or not, but people generally believed in Hell and the evil spirits residing there, so this was the safest bet she could think of.

The slaves behind the captain dropped their weapons, their ranks dissolved, and they fled back to the cabins. The orks didn’t move to stop them. They stood there, frozen, the same fear in their eyes as in their captain’s. Perhaps they were superstitious after all.

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Orkuz Graal himself didn’t move. He just stared at Krissintha’s mask. Kevin’s power flashed past the captain, and an ork shrieked as the spirit started dragging the green bastard forward. The captain turned his head to look and saw that one of his own kind was to be the next offering to be dragged to Hell. He fell to his knees, shaking his fist and roaring madly.

‘No! Stop, ya floatin’, hellspawn gank! I fuggen surrender, ya hear? We. Fuggen. Surrender.’

***

‘Here’s yar fuggen chair,’ Orkuz Graal grumbled as two of his orks finally managed to drag his very own chair out from the captain’s day cabin.

‘Fugg,’ one of the green errand boys swore.

Krissintha had been hearing the orkish swear word a lot in the past few minutes — if one could call the short grunt a word — so she recognized it.

The orks dragged the chair to her, then went to stand behind their captain.

Tomas and Ferin looked the exact opposite of calm and happy — Ferin was outright shaking, holding back tears and trying her best not to look at Krissintha. The ranger was a little bit … braver, but she was sure it was just a facade. The man was scared. Of her. Still, they helped her sit on the ork-sized thing that was too large even to be a throne in a king’s hall. She felt like a toddler trying to get comfortable in a grown-up’s chair. She squirmed until she could lean against the back, thankful for the mask covering her face. Without it, everyone would have seen the painful grimace as she had to move her injured arm and ankle. Once she was sitting — far from comfortably — the two elves stepped aside to stand on either sides of her improvized throne, as if they were her knights, or retainers. They reminded her of Quenta and Tommi a little — the two sailors had done something like this in the past. Oh well, could be worse.

‘Whatcha gonna do now, ya hell-cursed gank?’ Orkuz Graal demanded. Or pleaded. Or just asked. Krissintha wasn’t sure.

Seriously? It’s like someone bred them for Tourette’s Syndrome. Kevin mused.

What’s that? Krissintha asked, sighing, hoping the question would convey that she didn’t understand any of what he had just said.

Tourette’s. Some condition that makes you swear uncontrollably. Replied the spirit. I mean, they have surrendered, their lives are in our hands and they keep calling us names.

That … made some sense.

Uh-huh. So? Whatcha gonna do with em’ ganks, ya gank? Krissintha sent a thought, imitating the ork.

Dunno ya floatin’ gank. Whacha think we should do with ‘em ganks? Kevin played along of course. Got any fuggen suggestions?

Tear their fuggen heads off? Krissintha suggested, looking at the orks menacingly. Thinking orkish thoughts was … an interesting experience. Maybe she could try saying them out loud.

Orkuz Graal flinched, and was about to protest the new plan of beheading, but Krissintha lifted her good arm to stop him.

‘We accepted your surrender, we won’t kill you … ya gank,’ she stated. ‘But you are going to answer some fuggen questions.’

Well, saying orkish things out loud … needed practice.

‘Aye, aye, then hurry up with ‘em fuggen questions!’ the captain bellowed, his tone and verbiage in sharp contrast with how scared every single one of the green bastards looked.

What should we ask? Kevin squealed excitedly.

Krissintha thought about it for a few moments, then came to a decision. She leaned forward, looking into the ork’s black eyes.

‘Alright, Orkuz Graal, answer this!’ said Krissintha out loud but also sending her thoughts. ‘What does “gank” mean?’

I swear I’ll throw the both of you in a pit, you nitwits. Important questions! Ask important questions! Dimal’s frustrated thoughts invaded the voice-chat.

She sneered under her mask. Damn ranger just had to ruin her fun with orkish swearing — the distraction that kept all the accumulated horror and pain at bay. But she had to wait with the crying until she was alone with Kevin.

***

Until recently, Krissintha didn’t even know that creatures such as the green barbarians existed. Orks, as Kevin called them. It was a good name; short and it suited them. Now, fourteen of the monstrous marauders were kneeling in front of her makeshift throne, completely at her mercy.

Orkuz Graal didn’t answer a single question Dimal had put forward, such as how many ships the barbarians had sent, where other pickup points were, or what was their schedule for picking their cohorts up. Instead, Krissintha learned what “gank” meant. It meant something like “inferior creature”. To an ork everyone was a gank who wasn’t an ork. On top of that, orks who displayed dishonour and associated characteristics, such as cowardice, were also eligible to be called “ganks”.

Orkuz Graal vehemently denied being a gank. He hadn’t surrendered to avoid death, he had surrendered to secure an honorable death to himself and his men. The idea took some time for Krissintha to wrap her mind around, but a curse-riddled explanation later, she understood it. For orks, there was a difference between being killed and being killed.

Almost every aspect of orkish life had the same tried and tested method to it. Duels. If two orks had a difference of opinion — be it political, ideological or just a neighborly quarrel — the solution was a duel. The one who remained standing would be regarded as right, the one who ended up a bloody pulp — or dead on rare occasions, although that wasn’t the norm — was wrong. Winning a duel was an honourable act, dying in a duel was also honourable, so it was a win-win for everyone involved. According to Orkuz Graal.

The captain then went on a whole, ten minute long tangent about his hatred for mystics — the orkish word for spiritualists — saying they were a “dishonourable, cheating, shit-eating bunch of fuggen ganks”. To be a mystic was to forsake orkish heritage, tradition and pride. To be killed by one was not an honourable death. Hence his surrender.

He conceded that even the strongest of ork warriors couldn’t defeat a mystic in a duel — because spirits were a cheat. Then he explained that in the twenty years since a shitty god named Sivera had sent two shamans to gather followers, they had all but taken over the clan he belonged to. It was cheating. It was dishonourable. And there was nothing anyone could do about it — damn shamans and their fuggen mystics were just too powerful. As far as Orkuz Graal was concerned, his clan no longer existed in the form it should have.

But business was business — a completely separate thing that had nothing to do with honour or a lack thereof — so raids and slave-trade were still a thing.

‘… and the fuggen shamans sell ‘em ganks to the northern clans. For metal. For steel. So they can make more fuggen weapons for ‘em shitty mystics.’ Orkuz Graal finished telling his tale. ‘But Orkuz Graal will not die a gank!’ the ork proclaimed. ‘I will answer your fuggen questions, if you give us a good death.’

‘You’ll answer our questions … after we give you a good death?’ Krissintha asked incredulously. ‘How do you expect to do that?’

‘Stoopid gank,’ the captain growled at her. ‘Give us warriors to duel. Them pointy-eared skinnies have warriors. Proper warriors, not spirit-fuggers. Swear yo do that, I swear I’ll answer yar questions.’

Oh, the nerve of this guy! Kevin scoffed. Can’t I just relieve them of their souls?

Not yet. Krissintha thought, shaking her head. Dimal?

Huh. I’m just a scout-master, not even first-rank. I can’t just promise the enemy anything. Dimal said. Master Sivaren Tal might agree to it, if he thinks the information is worth it. I sent a runner, so we’ll know soon.

‘Good! Talk to yar fuggen clan boss! We’ll fight any of yar gank warriors. They’re more honorable than any asshole mystic.’

Good to know. Said Dimal dismissively.

Hey! Ships. I see two ships! Sini announced excitedly. It seemed she had the spyglass now. Ours I think. Oh. I recognize the figurehead on the prow on one of them. It’s the Righteous Wrath.

Hey, Orky! Kevin called out to the captain. What’s the name of this boat?

‘I’m Orkuz Graal, ya fuggen, invisible shit! And this ain’t a boat. It’s my ship!’ the ork growled angrily.

‘Just answer the question, Orkuz Graal!’ Krissintha snarled at him.

‘The Graal’s Enourmous Pride,’ declared the ork, puffing his chest out.

‘That’s … the name of your ship? The Graal’s Enormous Pride?’ said Krissy, raising her eyebrows.

‘Yah. Best ship in the whole fuggen clan,’

Wow! Was all Kevin said.

Krissintha had no words to respond.