Dolarth, the chieftain of the Burning Brand, hadn’t been angry that Grundar had gotten into a fight at the celebration feast. He wasn’t even angry about the resulting fine. He had been angry that Grundar had been publicly embarrassed by a puny human Rogue. Grundar’s failure to exact his revenge was a sign of weakness, and the light of that weakness reflected on the entire Faction.

The weeks since then had been hard for Grundar. He had not been banished. But it was damn close. He was sent to live in the outer ring of the compound in a hovel fit only for paupers. He hadn’t seen Kilth in weeks. Trenton, on the other hand, had attached himself to Dolarth, following the chieftain everywhere and whispering his poisonous lies. Meanwhile, Grundar, intended to be one of the shining stars of his generation, was left to fend for himself, just another meaningless sacrifice to Farandway.

Grundar had seethed. He had raged. It was unacceptable. He was meant for greatness. He would show all the petty fools who had wronged him. He would grind them to dust. And it would start with the one he hated most. Nathan Sutton.

He had the name now. Learning to use his log sheet had shown it to him, bright as day. Nathan Sutton. The human who had to die. Not just die. Suffer. Grundar would bring the Rogue’s broken corpse and lay it at the feet of the chieftain, proving his strength and reclaiming his position. Then he could take his time with the others. Trenton. Even the chieftain himself, once Grundar was strong enough. Dolarth was level 10, an impossible foe. For now. But Dolarth had hit the level cap. Grundar would catch up. Then even the foul Oathbreaker would fall.

Grundar had been smart. He had been patient. He could not risk another attack inside the city. That might get him truly banished. He waited and watched, looking for the right opportunity. And today it had come.

When the little Rogue had left the city at dawn with his pathetic party, Grundar had followed. He had been so sneaky, so stealthy, that not even their high-level guide had noticed him. Every fiber of his being screamed to ignore caution, to charge to battle and tear the Rogue and his entire group apart. But the guide that led them was too strong. He had silenced his blood lust. Waiting for the perfect moment.

Now, the perfect moment was finally here. The thief was alone, staring like an idiot down into the bottomless ravine. With a roar of triumph, Grundar burst from cover, his skin prickling with excitement.

He paused for a moment, waiting for Nathan Sutton’s satisfying scream of terror to wash over him.

His vision went white with rage when, instead, his hated enemy spoke.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

It was the goddamn orc again. The murderous brute must have followed him. Stupidly, Nate hadn’t noticed. Some scout.

Grundar’s meaty jaw worked up and down, as though trying to find words to answer Nate’s. Then, with a bellow that shook Nate’s bones, the orc plunged towards him, his massive axe already swinging.

Nate moved.

He hadn’t been idle in the weeks at the Traveler’s Retreat. He had excelled at the Gauntlet, an obstacle course that he breezed through at record breaking speeds. He had learned how to dress a wound, break down an animal carcass, search for snares, and a dozen other things. Most of all, though, he had studied combat. Every day he had sparred. Every day he had gotten his ass kicked by someone. But he had gotten better. Today was the real test.

Nate pivoted smoothly, ducking and weaving to the side as the axe tore through the air above him in an arc that would have taken him in the chest if he had stood still. With skill born of hours of practice, Nate drew his dagger, flowed in beside the orc, and struck.

The tip of his blade left a barely perceptible mark in the orc’s tough leather armor before skittering off harmlessly.

“Shit.” Nate breathed out. It was all he had time for before a gauntleted fist backhanded him across the face.

Nate flew several feet through the air before crashing to the rocky ground. Pain exploded through his body. His face felt molten hot where the fist had struck him. His vision was filled with black spots, and he could taste blood in his mouth.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

{You have suffered 3 points of bludgeoning damage. You have suffered the affliction minor concussion.

Current HP: 12/15}

Nate rolled three times before pushing himself back to his feet, trying to gain space. As he rose, he realized with a flush of terror that he was right against the lip of the ravine. One more roll would have taken him over the edge.

The orc roared again, stomping closer and raising his axe. But Grundar hesitated. Nate saw the dilemma. Nate was too close to the drop. If Grundar rushed in too aggressively, he would risk falling. It was a paltry advantage. But it was all Nate had. He wanted to run. He knew that, if he could make the forest, there was no way the orc could keep pace with him. But he would have to get past Grundar first.

Nate spit out a mouth full of blood before dancing to the side a few steps, looking for an opening to escape. Grundar moved with him, slashing out with his axe and forcing Nate to dodge. It was a game of cat and mouse. That rarely ended well for the mouse.

Nate twisted his right hand, letting a hard object drop from his concealed sleeve pocket into his palm. He feinted another sidestep then, just as Grundar moved to block him, he snapped out his arm, hurling his rock at the orc’s exposed face.

Grundar reacted faster than Nate thought possible, twisting his axe head to intercept the projectile. The rock clinked harmlessly off the blade.

Grundar lowered the axe and grinned wickedly at Nate.

“I know your tricks now, Nathan Sutton. Your little rocks won’t…agghh!” The orc’s taunt was cut short as the second rock Nate had thrown just as the first struck caught him on the tip of his snout.

Nate didn’t hesitate. He ran. Not at the orc, trying to get past him, but directly along the lip of the ravine, moving along the edge like a tightrope walker. One wrong step, and he would fall.

Grundar was after him in a heartbeat, the rock causing more surprise than pain. Nate could hear the orc stomping after him as he bellowed a guttural scream of rage. Nate refused to look back. He was so clearly overmatched that fighting didn’t even occur to him. Escape was his only hope of survival.

Something flashed through the air past Nate’s shoulder, startling him so bad that he had to windmill his arms to keep his balance. Grundar screamed again, but the timber was different this time. Pain. Nate looked.

The orc had stopped, staring his disbelief at an arrow protruding from his shoulder. Nate scrambled to make sense of it. Then he heard a yell from the forest. A familiar voice.

“Hold on, Nate. We’re coming!” Christophe called.

His party was coming to rescue him.

Another arrow buzzed from the trees, and Nate caught a glimpse of Triska perched on a branch twenty yards away. Grundar executed the same move with the axe he had against the rock, the blade sweeping up and swatting away the incoming arrow with such perfect timing that Nate was certain the maneuver had to be a skill. Nate couldn’t see the rest of the party, but he could hear them moving through the undergrowth. They were close. He only needed to hold on for a bit longer. Maybe his supposed luck was finally showing its worth.

Grundar howled in frustration and lurched forward, taking another awkward swing at Nate. He side-stepped as he had before.

Then it all went wrong.

As Nate stepped, a minor wave of vertigo washed over him. It was only a fleeting sense of imbalance, brought on, no doubt, by his minor concussion. It made his step slightly unsure, though it wasn’t enough to send him over the edge.

Instead, his foot came down a fraction of an inch farther to the left than he intended. His weight came down on the foot, but rather than the hard rock and packed earth each previous step had found, this time he came to rest on a small patch of loose gravel. He slipped. He stumbled.

Even then, he didn’t panic. His momentum was still taking him parallel to the ravine. As he started to fall, he saw a dry, scrubby bush in his path, a lone survivor growing just at the edge of the craggy chasm. Nate put out his hands, hoping to use the bush to brace himself and regather his balance.

But the bush was not a living, growing thing. It had been once. But the rocky soil had failed to sustain it, and the plant had died at some point in the past, leaving only its corpse behind. The branches did not bend to support Nate’s weight. They snapped and disintegrated, turning to slinters and dust under his weight.

Nate plunged forward. The lip of the ravine, a knife’s edge up to this point, had a chip in it. A single section, concealed from his view by the bush, where the open air of the crevasse invaded just a few feet farther than anywhere else along the rim. A dark shaft of smooth stone that seemed to reach for Nate, pulling him into its embrace.

There was nothing he could do. He tumbled, headfirst, into the shaft. And he fell.

Grundar screamed in rage at the world as he saw the Rogue’s body disappear into the small shaft on the edge of the ravine. He gripped his axe so hard he could feel his knuckles crack as he revenge was, once again, stolen from his grasp.

Another arrow whizzed by, this one narrowly missing Grundar’s head. His deflection skill was still on cooldown. The rest of the Rogue’s party would be on him in moments. If it was just the level 1 riffraff, he would have stayed and killed them. Then he could check and make sure that Nathan Sutton had died. He needed proof the thief had died. The Burning Brand would never believe him without proof.

But they had their guide with them, and Grundar was no fool. The man looked like a miserable specimen. But he had levels. The tyranny of levels wasn’t something that could be lightly overcome. Grundar had no choice.

With a final cry of despair, Grundar turned and fled back to the forest.