They were elites in more than just name, these orcs. Swick might have expected as much. General Venka did not like inaccurate titles within his army.

He’d managed to keep ahead of them for just a few more minutes and a few more miles, then the things had gotten him surrounded. They were four in all, big and mean, bodies covered with bolted-on steel that rattled as bulging musculature flexed. He saw pure hatred flashing behind their eyes slits, and it wasn’t hard to imagine why.

Slaves got that look when they saw a runaway. They hated them for a number of reasons, but none more than for having the courage to do what they themselves had not. No slave would ever fight so viciously as when they were fighting a runaway. Just his bloody luck.

There was something clotted and sludgy in the back of Swick’s throat, spit and phlegm. He always felt the need to spit in a fight, particularly a tough one. He decided to use it this time, hacking out the stuff at the nearest orc even as he whirled around, sword held tight.

His guess had been right. They were quick, these elites. Quick enough that one had already pounced and come within range by the time he finished his turn, letting the heavy blade cleave down hard into the fucker’s shoulder. It was a solid connection, and the half-inch of steel gave way with a satisfying crunch as bright blood spurted out from the gash. Swick felt the sword bounce back, and followed its momentum as he jumped away just in time to evade the third orc’s hammer swing.

Then the first, the one he’d blinded with spit, smashed something into his back.

Probably it was a hammer, given how efficiently it emptied the strength out of him. Swick’s feet left the ground and he flew five, ten, twenty feet before landing hard and rolling farther. He was barely up in time to see the orcs closing in.

A change of strategy was called for.

Swick’s mouth was full of blood, perhaps he’d bitten his tongue. He put it to use, subtly spitting down, then again onto his hands. He spat a third time at his feet- aware of how much utility the deed was getting in this fight- before he hurled a final spray out at the charging orcs and lunged.

Predictably, his target raised an arm and blocked the projectile rather than lose momentum by dodging. Swick translocated just as the blood settled on their bracer, waiting until the height of his sword thrust before suddenly appearing before his enemy. Charging orc met stabbing man blade first. The tip pierced steel even better than its edge. It was, after all, a sword made to cleanly fell a bound Paladin of near-Heroic power.

Orcs were big, broad and ever so slightly magical, but very few living things could survive their heart being skewered.

Swick made sure to tug his sword a moment, shifting it around in the wound and hastening the bleeding, then he released his grip and translocated back to the dirt he’d spat blood into just before more hammer blows could find him. He watched from those twenty feet back as the stabbed orc wavered, fell, and died. One down.

Trading a weapon for a dead enemy was not the best deal he could have made, however. The remaining orcs closed quickly, fury in their gaits.

Swick almost let himself feel a stab of hope before one of the beasts halted, sticking beside its slain ally, eyes keenly drifting to the body.

Elites. Fucking of course they’d realised the trick to his magic, orcs weren’t half as stupid as most thought. Swick backed off, cursing as he realised his plan of translocating to retrieve his sword was foiled by the one elite’s proximity to it, and then cursing again as he saw the second give the marked patch of sand a wide berth. There’d be no slipping behind it, little tripping the thing with his magic at all. Swick steeled himself, and closed in with his shackles readied.

The axe that came for him might have been better used decapitating elephants than men, but Swick was sure to avoid it regardless. He made to move in, a feint which succeeded in drawing the orc’s next swing out prematurely. Swick went under it, raising his arms and controlling the slack of chains between them just so as to leave it in the path of the metal blade. Steel screamed against steel, and he was sent flying.

He landed, rolled, sprung to his feet and tested his bonds. The chain remained in place, but a quick glance showed Swick a great chunk bitten out from one of the links. He squared his shoulders, yanking the shackles in two ways with both arms at once, feeling a moment of resistance before the damage worsened and the chain snapped entirely.

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His arms were free, more or less, and just in time. The orc was on him again.

Swick planted his feet, threw a punch with all his strength…And translocated at the moment before it snapped out. His fist thudded hard into the jaw of the other orc, knocking the giant clean from his feet and buying Swick a few precious moments to go for the sword still sticking out of its friend.

By the time the orc was up, his blade was out, and Swick started his swing. He glanced to one side, saw the other orc charging in past his previous location, waited a moment, then translocated again so that the very tip of his weapon’s arc scraped along the approaching enemy’s gorget. It dislodged the piece of armour, nearly cutting it in two, and drew a squirt of blood that Swick noted was too little in volume to be arterial. His enemy rounded on him, then started backing off. The orcs were together again shortly, and weary.

Wise. Swick had to fight not to grow cocky himself.

Knives were his weapon of choice, but against armour that thick Swick was happy for the greatsword. He’d have been happier with a halberd though. The orcs came at once, both spaced just enough to watch one another’s backs, both ready for an assault from any direction. Swick ran his finger over the edge of his sword, flicking his hand upwards and rushing in.

His first swing was dodged, but he quickly twisted it into a second just in time to meet the axe that would otherwise have taken his arm. Both weapons rattled, shards of steel exploding outwards from the clash. A common fate to mundane weapons in Heroic hands.

The other orc’s hammer came down to within inches of Swick’s spine before he translocated to the drop of ichor now falling, twisting in mid-air to turn his descent into a stab clean through the damaged shoulder of the first orc he’d struck.

Blood, steam. Death. The air filled with all three as the dirt filled with orc flesh, then Swick hit the ground and rolled. He came up swinging, almost blinding the last orc as it tried its luck with a lunge, then started backing away. He chased it, snarling and slashing, making himself as big a terror as was possible to drive his panicking enemy farther away.

Swick’s final translocation, and the subsequent sword running into his enemy’s back, came just moments before the orc realised it was being shepherded to one of the previously marked locations. It convulsed, swinging in a vain attempt to kill Swick even as it hung on the end of his weapon. Then died. He let it fall, cleaning the blood-soggy steel in black dirt, panting.

There wasn’t time to waste, so Swick didn’t. He looked around, located the orc’s tracks, and followed them back until he found a trio of horses. Big things, dark of mane and rippling with almost as much muscle as their riders. One couldn’t use a normal mount to haul around a rider the weight of a horse itself, after all, and the magical beasts used by Venka’s elites were well known.

Going through the saddle bags, Swick found food enough for a day or two. Or a few months if one happened to be a twelve stone human rather than a number of hundred stone barbarians.

The mounts themselves were aggressive, but not impossible to reason with. Swick took one and sent the other two sprinting off in different directions, with luck they’d delay the enemy finding his trail.

But once that was done, he was left with a question. Swick hated those, they were the one form of struggle he never quite grew used to. His head ached at it.

Swick could go back for Ensharia, but he wouldn’t. A rescue now would be the most likely to succeed, Venka’s men would be diffused, and Swick had given enough impression of his true self that he doubted the man expected him to come charging back. One Hero, with speed and surprise and plenty of stolen knives from a trio of dead orcs, might well make it to the slaves and free them fast enough to turn the hunt into a real fight.

That would be best for the Paladin, but not for Swick. He urged the horse on away from the camp, head throbbing as he did.

Swick had to look out for number one, had to do what was best for himself. God knew nobody else would.

***

Magi were socially stunted, selfish, half-mad egotists prone to fits of volcanic tantrum followed by long periods of arctic sulks. Collin had heard as much, and heard it well. It was quite another thing, however, to see it himself.

What he’d heard of Arion Falls spoke of a man possessing singular intellect and power, destined to claim the seat of greatest magus alive, and quite possible in history to boot. What he was met with, instead, was a whinging, petty, narcissistic twat. Even his voice was annoying. All nasally, all sneering, as if he felt slighted that each word- and the punctuation between them for that matter- were not met with a round of applause.

A day. That was all Collin had spent pinched beside him, tucked away in their dugout, kept shielded from sight more than from the elements as rain drizzled and winds bristled and the magus whinged. By the halfway point Collin was about ready to behead him, and by the end he was halfway to beheading himself. It was all only worsened by the damned King.

Kings were socially vacant, self-full, completely mad egotists prone to fits of apocalyptic tantrum followed by periods of actual war. Collin had heard as much, and heard it well. It was quite another thing, however, to see it himself.

Galukar seemed more willing to weather the elements, that much had to be handed to him. If only because nothing else could. He groaned, frequently, and snarled even more so. Constantly hissing out some whispered, bitchy demand for the enemy to show themselves, as a force of thousands might be hurried on their path by the anticipation of men primed to jump them.

Between the two of them, Collin sincerely wasn’t sure which was more annoying. The King, perhaps, if only because his age left him no excuse at all for the childishness. It was a relief when a flash of cloud-buried sunlight bounced off a rain-wet sheet of metal ahead. The sign of naked steel. Armour.