From Mitchell’s left, there was suddenly a blood-curdling scream. A scream of such utter terror that it sent ice coursing through Mitchell’s veins. There was a flash as magic split the darkening forest, but the spell must have not had the desired effect.

“Help! Larin! Larin! Help It’s a–”

Whatever words that poor bastard had been about to say ended in more high-pitched wailing and then the forest went utterly silent. No night birds chirped, no insects hummed and the air had stopped. It was as if the forest itself knew death stalked the branches and everything was trying to go unnoticed.

“Dennik!” screamed a voice to the left. “Dennik, where’d you go? Balls and cock, man! Say something!”

“That must be Larin,” Mitchell thought.

“What in the nine hells happened?” the leader screamed out, panic making his voice shrill.

“I don’t know! Something pulled Dennik up into the trees. Something—Oh, balls and fucking taint!” The man screamed.

“What is it?” the gruff voice shouted.

“It’s his fucking arm! His fucking arm just dropped down from the tree!”

Mitchell began to hum an old tune, discordant and ominous. Then, when it got to the line he wanted, he called out in a sing-song voice, “I am the devil, and I’m coming for you.”

Once again, he lamented not being able to say it in English as the cadence and intonation worked so much better, but he wanted them to understand his words.

“What do we do, sergeant? There’s something in the trees.”

“Oh balls,” Lenik screamed out. “Sergeant, there’s something he–”

The screams started again. And they kept going this time.

“Sergeant! Help! Ahhh…”

“Larin!” the voice of the sergeant rang out. “Henerton, get over there and help him.”

There was no response.

“Denass burn your soul, you coward! I’ll see you flogged for this!”

“Mother! Mother help!” the dying man screamed into the uncaring night. Those were the last actual words that he ever managed to say. The rest was nothing more than shrieking. Closing his mind to the terror of the poor bastard who just had the unfortunate luck of meeting a gratha, Mitchell made his move. He knew he wouldn’t get a better chance. He hated the man who’d shot Lethelin, and still those high, pitiful screams were turning his bowels to water. He couldn’t imagine what it was doing to his friends..

With the sounds of the man’s torment filling the night, Mitchell bolted from the tree and veered just to the left where the one called Henerton was standing, crouched behind a tree about three meters behind where Mitchell had been. He could see them clearly, even in the gloom. Hernton was a stocky human, about thirty years old or so, with a day’s growth of stubble on his squarish face. He had on a leather helmet fashioned in the same color as his light tan and green clothing and Mitchell spotted a gambeson not unlike his own under the cloak he wore at his shoulders. He had a sword in his right hand and, when Mitchell broke from behind the tree, he saw him looking over about two meters at where his sergeant, whose name Mitchell still didn’t know, was also crouched. He was an orc, Mitchell now saw, and a big one. Then again, Mitchell had yet to see a small orc. Maybe they came out of the womb six-and-a-half feet tall.

Seeing the size of the orc confirmed his decision to go for the smaller human instead. This way he could focus all of his attention on the former and not have to worry about his back. As he charged, he fired three quick arcane missiles at the sergeant to keep him pinned long enough to take care of Henerton. It had the desired effect and the startled orc dove behind the tree to avoid the streaking bolts of energy flying at him.

“Fucking taint!” Henerton shouted and brought his blade up to meet Mitchell’s strike.

The man had been startled, but not as much as Mitchell had hoped. His training took over and he was only put out for a second which meant Mitchell was going to have to work a little harder for this one.

Their blades clanged together and Mitchell felt the power in the stocky man’s form. He was shorter than Mitchell by a few inches, but he was very broad in the shoulders, and his arms were thick. He grunted under the force of the Mitchell’s attack and swore as he was driven back a few steps.

Mitchell knew he had only moments before the big orc was at his back. He needed to put this man down fast. He could already tell the armor his opponent wore would deflect arcane missiles so he opted for a firebolt instead. As they broke apart, Mitchell fired a quick blast towards the man’s face, which he ducked while bringing his sword around to swing at Mitchell’s midsection, forcing him back a step. Yeah, this guy definitely knew what he was doing.

Mitchell met the strike, parrying it with ease and riposted back, aiming for the man’s neck. It was his turn to dance back now as he barely avoided the strike.

Just then, Mitchell heard the orc behind him and, on instinct, he cast blade burst and, as the swarming blades erupted into existence, he was rewarded with a scream of pain from behind him. Not bothering to turn and look at the damage he just caused he advanced on Henerton who was starting to panic as he tried to stay clear of the wall of death scything towards him.

“Balls and taint!” the man screamed, diving to stay clear. “Dennik was supposed to deal with magic users!”

“Dennik’s dead,” Mitchell snarled. “Like I said, you fucked up.”

Mitchell was already charging as the spell dropped and, this time, he caught the man unprepared as he had not recovered from throwing himself out of the radius of the spectral blades. His sword came down in a powerful two-handed swing, right at the spot where Henerton’s shoulder met his neck.

Mitchell had swung so hard he nearly cleaved the man in two. Blood and gore erupted from the body as his insides were ripped asunder. Mitchell blocked that part out, knowing he would deal with it later, and turned to face the commander.

The orc was picking himself up where from where he’d stumbled back from the blade burst and his whole left side was a web of cuts. His armor had blunted the worst of it, but several had gotten through and he was bleeding freely from dozens of slashes. The big man was breathing heavily and it sounded to Mitchell like a snorting bull.

The orc looked down at his ripped leather and fabric gear and ripped it completely off.

Then something happened which Mitchell was not prepared for.

The orc sucked in a mighty breath and he roared. But this wasn’t just a battle cry. The orc’s skin actually glowed momentarily, his own personal St. Elmo’s Fire. As the sound washed over him Mitchell’s legs went weak and his fingers nearly lost their grip on his sword.

The orc seemed to grow in height as Mitchell watched, swelling until he looked eight or nine feet tall. Mitchell had to run! This thing would rip him apart. He–

Mitchell felt a pressure in his mind and suddenly the orc shrunk back down to his normal size. Which was still roughly seven feet, but not the hulk he had been before. It was like the larger vision simply melted away and Mitchell blinked. Then he felt control returning to his limbs as the feeling that he had to run vanished.

“That big fucker tried to use a spell or something on me,” Mitchell thought to himself. “Some kind of mental effect.”

Then is mind flashed back to Luvari telling him that he couldn’t be charmed and wondered if this was some kind of similar effect that the stone shielded his mind from since he hadn’t actively resisted it. Either way, he shook the spell off and, not wanting to waste any more time, charged the big fucker.

He lept forward, closing the couple of meters in a flash and came in with his sword low. The orc was ready though. His reflexes were shockingly good for someone so large. With a roar he brought his blade up and stopped Mitchell’s cold and then lifted up a leg and kicked Mitchell in the chest, sending him flying back into a tree.

Mitchell’s world went white for a moment as he struck the unforgiving wood and rolled to the ground. He blinked to clear his vision, pushed the ache in his chest and back to the side, and forced himself up. The orc was coming, his heavy footfalls like drum beats in Mitchell’s mind.

Mitchell was on his feet just in time to see the large sword swinging for his head and he half dove, half fell and tried to turn it into a roll as the thick blade sent a chunk of wood spinning into the night.

“Fuck!” he yelped at the sheer power of the strike. He was definitely swinging for the fences.

The ground was soft and uneven, and Mitchell kept getting tripped up by roots as he backed away, and the orc just kept coming. Mitchell rolled again, dodging another powerful swing. The commander’s green-black eyes were wild with his battle lust, and they tracked Mitchell’s every move with laser-like precision.

Finally, Mitchell was in a relatively level patch of ground, and he was able to stand up and meet the orc’s advance. There was no time to fire off anything, as the creature’s sword was moving even before he’d closed the distance. Mitchell brought his up to meet it, and they clanged together loud enough to make his ears ring. But, to his surprise, he found he was able to match the big man’s power. The orc flexed and bore down, but Mitchell had his balance now, both feet firmly planted, and he grunted and pushed back.

From either side of their crossed blades, they glared at each other. The orc’s tusks gleamed wet in the faint light of Ithstasy just filtering through the trees and the orc’s body glistened with the blood from the cuts he’d taken early on. And the smell!

Mitchell growled and pulled up a reserve of strength from somewhere and shoved, actually pushing the orc back a step. Once he had a little bit of space Mitchell brought his blade around and went for thing’s throat, though the orc blocked it easily. But Mitchell wasn’t really trying to hit the neck, he was trying to create an opening.

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As the orc moved to deflect the blade, he had been expecting Mitchell to resist it as they had before. But instead, Mitchell let go of the sword with his left hand just before the orc struck and let it go limp in his right. It forced the enemy commander to overcommit and, when he met almost no resistance, the momentum pulled him off balance and left his side exposed. Mitchell made a fist and punched as hard has he could into the exposed left side of the orc. It was like punching the side of a slab of beef ribs and there was a meaty thwack but Mitchell also heard the crack of bone as the slab of beef gave several inches.

“Fuck yeah,” Mitchell thought in triumph. “I’ve got superhero strength now, asshole!”

The orc howled in pain and back handed Mitchell across the face, which sent him flying back on his ass, dazed.

“And that’s what I get for gloating,” he thought as he struggled to sit up, the whole side of his face feeling like he’d been hit with a meat tenderizer. Thankfully, the orc wasn’t moving much better.

As Mitchell staggered to his feet, ears ringing, and feeling his own blood running down his neck, he saw the orc listing to one side, favoring his unbroken ribs. He still held his sword in his other hand, and he wasn’t out of the fight, but Mitchell had definitely taken the spring from his step. They glared at each other across the open space.

“I’m going to kill you and eat your fucking heart,” the orc snarled, his voice like gravel rolling around in a bucket. He let out a ragged cough then and Mitchell could see the blood flying from his mouth. Definitely some broken ribs.

“Then,” he wheezed, “I’m going to rape that little whore back there and cut her throat.”

From the trees above the orc’s head, Mitchell saw a flash of emerald green. Vras was there, his grisly work with the other two long since concluded. He was staring at Mitchell expectantly. Mitchell met his gaze briefly, and gave a subtle shake of his head. Mitchell would finish this on his own. He knew he could match the big thing’s strength now, and, despite the throbbing in Mitchell’s head, the steady drip of blood from where he’d taken a backhand across the face, and the ache in his ribs and back, he knew the orc was worse off than he was with at least two broken ribs. No, Mitchell decided. The big fucker was his.

“What’s your name?” Mitchell asked him. Despite breathing heavily, his voice, while raspy, was flat and even.

“Brogak Oglan.”

Mitchell nodded.

“After I send your soul to Denass, I’ll say a prayer for you. And if I ever meet your dock whore of a mother, I’ll be sure to tell her what a punk bitch she had for a son.”

Mitchell used his best approximation for punk bitch in Common that he could think of and had no idea if it held the same weight, but it was enough.

Brogak roared and started to rush forward, albeit much slower than he had before, and Mitchell saw more blood coming from his mouth as the broken bones shredded his lungs.

Mitchell had the orc’s number now, though. No more surprise attacks, no more tripping over roots and trying to keep his footing. He was a motherfucking arcanist who had been trained by not one, but two Onyx knights.

“Fuck this guy, dude,” Mitchell thought to himself.

He did something he’d never done before. Mitchell had been told that he didn’t need to point his hand to aim his directional spells but it was something that he’d always done. Indeed, according to Revos and Allora, it was what most magic users did. There just seemed to be something psychological about it. Whenever he cast arcane missile or fire bolt, he threw his sevith hand out. But he didn’t need to. He could direct it out of his forehead or his elbow if he wanted to, but that always seemed kind of stupid. Mitchell wanted to get off his shots with both hands on his sword, however, so he decided now was as good a time as any.

Functionally, there was no difference as far as the spell was concerned. He just moved the mana to a different part of his body to before he visualized pushing it through the rune. The spell would form itself regardless. So rather than direct the mana to flow out of his hand, he directed it to that third eye spot right on his forehead, and launched an arcane bolt, looking straight at Brogak’s face as he did so.

Brogak was no green recruit, though. Even wounded and bleeding from dozens of small cuts, he was an experienced soldier. Perhaps he expected something like that, but he ducked to the side, his steps not wavering as his sword started to rise. Only one of the missiles struck, but it had the effect of blasting his left ear clean off his head. He howled again as he got within striking distance and their blades clashed again, each of them executing a series of slashes that the other defended against. Even wounded the big fucker was strong and fast. But he was slowing, his breath a wheezing gurgle as the broken ribs took a heavy toll. How he was able to keep moving through the pain, Mitchell couldn’t even fathom.

Mitchell’s blade was faster and on a quick riposte it found its mark in Brogak’s right thigh. The orc screamed as Mitchell slid in further and twisted before yanking it free with a spray of blood that splatted on the ground. Brogak went down, his leg no longer functioning. Even still, he was only down a knee, but he was bleeding out fast.

“God damn, you fuckers are strong,” Mitchell cursed in English, his chest heaving.

Then Brogak tried to stand once more. Mitchell was so stunned he almost didn’t react as he saw the orc growling once more and lunged for him, sword arm weak, but still moving. He jerked back in surprise, knocked the blade aside easily and followed it up immediately with a thrust into the orc’s throat, punching out the other side, severing the spine.

A wet gurgle of air escaped from the wound, his body twitched, and finally slide to the ground and didn’t rise again.

“What the fuck do they feed the orcs around here?” Mitchell swore as he sagged in relief.

Just then Mitchell felt a nudge against his hip and jerked to see Vras standing there, his coat glistening with gore.

“Good job,” he told the shadow cat, and scratched between his ears. “Come on, let’s go check on Leth.”

Mitchell limped his way over to Lethelin. Vras went down on his stomach and watched expectantly. Mitchell chose to ignore the blood and gore covering his maw. Her face was unnaturally pale and she had barely moved in the few minutes since she’d been shot. Her breathing was labored as she fought through the pain but she was conscious, which Mitchell took as a good sign.

“Still with me?”

“Well, it’s nice here,” she said, her voice strained. “And I figured I could wait until you were done. Maybe take a nap.”

He grinned at her as he reached to sit her up and she gave him a weak smile. Then she saw his face.

“I’m not an expert or anything, but I don’t think you’re supposed to stop punches with your face,” she said, her sarcasm still intact.

“You should see the other guy,” he grinned through the pain. “Let’s get you up. Because, I’m not an expert or anything, but I don’t think you’re supposed to catch arrows with your body.”

Lethelin winced.

“Yeah, I walked into that one, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. Now, are you ready? This is probably going to hurt.”

“Yeah, just do it.”

Mitchell slipped a hand under the shoulder that was pierced by the arrow, slipping it into the soft ground beneath her, and she sucked in a breath but didn’t cry out. Once he had a firm grip, he put his other hand behind her head and cradled her neck.

“Good?”

“Mmhmm,” she grunted through clenched lips.

“On three.”

“Three what?”

Mitchell blinked. Did they not do that here?

“I will count to three and then lift. So you can get ready.

“Does that make it better?”

“I don’t know, it’s just something we do right before something painful.”

“Okay, then.”

“One… Two…” Mitchell lifted.

“Stollar’s fucking balls!” she screamed as he lifted her into a sitting position. After a few deep breaths and a moment where it looked like she might pass out, she glared at him with pain-filled eyes. “You said three! You went on two, you fish-brained jivi fucker! Balls and fucking taint!”

“Yeah,” he said sheepishly. “That’s kind of what we do, also. The idea is that you will tense up on three and it will hurt more.”

“I don’t see how!” she snapped. “If I could reach Mira, I’d stab you and see how you like it! I’ll count to three first though, so don’t fucking worry!”

“Okay, my bad,” he said. “I’m sorry. But you’re up and I’m going to try and get this thing out of you.”

“Do you know how?”

“Not exactly, but I’ve got a pretty good idea. The good news is the arrow passed all the way through so I don’t have to push it through myself. I know enough to know that trying to pull an arrow out the other way is a very bad idea. But I’m going to snap the shaft and pull it out from your back and that’s not going to be pleasant. After that, I’ll use the healing spell and try to repair as much of the damage as I can. I can give the second-circle spell a try, it’s more powerful. I don’t think it hit anything vital. I’ll use the minor healing to stop the bleeding straight away, then work on the second-circle spell to repair the internal damage. Okay?”

Lethelin stared at nothing as she absorbed his words, fat beads of sweat dripping down her forehead.

“Leth, you with me?”

She blinked and eyes cloudy with pain focused on his.

“Okay. But no more bloody counting. Just tell me when you’re going to do it.”

Mitchell nodded.

He positioned himself off to the side and gripped the shaft of the arrow as close to her shoulder as he could with his right hand to steady it. It had barely jostled the projectile but even that prompted her to groan. Then, he bought his left hand up and gripped next to the first, leaving about two inches of the pale wood exposed.

“Are you ready?”

She was panting through her nose, her lips locked tight and tears had started leaking from her eyes but they stayed locked straight ahead. She gave him the briefest of nods.

As firmly as he could manage and trying to minimize any flexion on his right hand, he snapped the back of the arrow off. He snapped it easily, but there were still a few slivers of wood that he would need to deal with.

To her credit, Lethelin didn’t scream, but the moan through her clamped lips was evidence enough. Sweat was pouring off her now, dripping down her nose, and her chin and her shirt was soaked through. He reached for her other dagger and, through her groans, shaved away the bits of wood that were most likely to drag through her skin as it was passed through her.

“How you doing, Leth? Talk to me.”

Her eyes fluttered and he felt her start to sway but she managed to flick her eyes up and meet his.

“Just finish it,” she panted.

Mitchell nodded once and moved around behind her. There was more blood here. Comparatively, the entry wound had bled less, but the exit wound was bigger, with more tissue damage. Mitchell supposed he should be grateful that there wasn’t something like hollow-point arrowheads that expanded on impact here.

As Mitchell stared at the few inches of the arrow that protruded from her shoulder, he tried to decide if he should pull it quickly or pull it out slowly. He settled for somewhere in between and, if things started to go bad, he would yank it out.

“Here we go.”

Lethelin’s breathing quickened and he began to slide the shaft out. It was strange how smoothly it started to move. It must not have felt smooth to her, though. She gasped and then sobbed as Mitchell extracted the blood-stained shaft.

“Mitchell!” she moaned as she started to shake.

“Almost done, baby. Almost done.”

He hated how much it was hurting her but he also knew there was nothing he could do about that. He watched as the end of the shaft disappeared into her shoulder and saw blood well up in the wound, his eyes more than good enough to perceive it even in the darkness.

Just a little more, and…

The arrow came free and Lethelin sagged against him, her sobs coming freely now.

Mitchell immediately cast his first-circle healing spell and was pleased to see the bleeding begin to slow and finally stop. The skin started to heal over and she uttered a sound of relief rather than of agony. Then, worrying that the simple spell would not be strong enough for anything more than superficial wounds, he fished out his book and spent a few minutes reviewing the form for the second-circle spell.

“This isn’t so hard. It’s just a few additional channel lines around the inner lattice of the rune. They only loop once. The basic spell is the same, I just need the extra channel lines to handle the additional mana.”

“Only once?” Lethelin mumbled, her strength nearly exhausted. “That’s good.”

Mitchell cast the spell a couple of times to try and firm up his grasp of it, and it only lost cohesion the first time. The resulting feedback was uncomfortable, but nothing serious. Once he had it, he cast it on Leth’s wound and found that he could get a sense for how much the spell was repairing by how quickly the mana flowed into her body. After just a minute or so of the higher-level spell, he felt a strange sensation on the outflow of magic. It was almost like her body was pushing back against the influx. Mitchell dropped the spell and saw that Lethelin had already fallen asleep against him.

He laid her down gently and grabbed a blanket to cover her.

Vras moved then, the first time since the whole ordeal started, and rested his head on the previously wounded shoulder and sighed heavily.

“Maula will be okay,” he told the cat. “But I need you to watch her. There’s something else I must do. Keep her safe until I get back.”

The cat flicked his ears and settled in.

Knowing that she was as safe as she was likely to be at the moment, he grabbed his sword, re-sheathed it, and stepped into the night.