Dewpetal skittered up and down the vertical rows of heavy iron bars, testing every crack and crevice for weaknesses. A goblin’s skull was the largest point on their skeleton. If they could force their head through a space, then it was only a mere matter of twisting and contorting to get their body to follow. Alas, it was a wasted effort. Dewpetal had already checked the cell upon arrival for vulnerabilities and had come up empty-handed. The fact that she was rechecking was not because she’d overlooked something, but because her only other option was to do nothing at all. And she, unlike Sascha, was determined to stave off the suffocating dread looming over their heads any way she could.
Sascha didn’t move from his spot on the cold ground. He felt paralyzed, catatonic, unable to do anything but sit and wait for the worst to come. Fear had immobilized his body but not his thoughts. The angry voices within his head ran in a hundred different directions at the same time, pulling, ripping, shredding the former threads that had previously held everything together.
Why had he just stood there? Why hadn’t he tried to intervene sooner? A better orc would have commanded Aster to stand down regardless of what side of the bars they were on. Oralia would have done it. Seven realms, Sascha’s own mother could’ve had that damned shadow witch bawling her eyes out with nothing more than a few choice words. Why didn’t he have that? What was it about him that made it so damn hard to wield even a fraction of power? Size was indicative of might and yet, here he was, the biggest orc most had ever seen, and it all meant absolute shit because whatever magic ingredient it took to be a warrior had skipped him over.
Amidst the fear and terror pumping through Sascha’s veins, old feelings of inadequacy started to awaken and stir. He thought he’d put them to rest years ago, but that was the issue with insecurities, they never fully went away. They simply went dormant, content to hibernate during the times of plenty, knowing one day they’d get the chance to rear their ugly heads once more.
Weakling — the words one by one traveled his thoughts on an endless loop — coward, spineless.
Sascha was all of the above and then some. His mother used to complain that his physical stature had been wasted on someone so docile. She and Father had never fully accepted that, for all the size and strength in the world, Sascha simply didn’t have the heart of a hot-blooded warrior. Still, they pressured him to be something he wasn’t — strong, fierce, someone they could be proud of, but Sascha could never rise to the challenge.
And then he met Oralia, and suddenly everything he’d thought about himself, every shortcoming that paralyzed him with fear, slowly corroded away. She didn’t believe in the old orc traditions, probably because she didn’t adhere to the mold herself. She’d accepted Sascha as he was without hesitation. No, it was more than that. She’d admitted on more than one occasion that his gentle demeanor was what had drawn her to him in the first place.
Over the years, as their casual on-again-off-again relationship developed into something more, Sascha’s feelings of inadequacy were put to rest. He was strong in his own right, just not the way orc society had wanted him to be. And yet, stuck in another unbreakable cage, destined for the noose, Sascha was starting to fear he’d relied on Oralia’s strength a little too much.
He could have used their time together to learn from her. Imitate the way she commanded a room. What tone to use, what words to choose, how to let an unspoken threat dangle in the air like a hammer poised to come crashing down the moment negotiations didn’t go his way. Sascha silently kicked himself. He’d had all the means to learn from the expert and he’d wasted it. And now, without Oralia at his side, he was helpless to make a difference. The one thing he needed to do, the one thing he should have been able to do, he couldn’t. For fuck’s sake, he couldn’t make Cray’s goons listen any more than he could break down the wall he was leaning against.
Useless fuck! The insult joined the others steadily swirling within his aching skull. Snapping his tusks, Sascha slammed his clenched fist against the ground.
“Sa-cha?”
Reluctantly, Sascha lifted his eyes and met Dewpetal’s concerned stare. The little goblin gestured as she spoke in her mother tongue, informing him that pounding at the floor wouldn’t do any good. She then pointed at the wall, as if suggesting he take his mounting frustrations out on it instead.
Sascha shook his head no.
Dewpetal pointed to the wall again before hunching her shoulders and shuffling over to it, employing her best angry orc stomp. She was hopeful, perhaps, that all Sascha needed was a demonstration to get him going.
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“I don’t walk like that,” Sascha sighed.
Still in character, Dewpetal pounded her tiny fists against the wall to demonstrate what Sascha should have been doing.
“I’ll have you know that not all orcs fly off the handle into a rampage on command. Some can’t even do it at all.” Sascha couldn’t believe the words that slipped so easily from his mouth. He’d never told anyone that before. Not even Oralia. Like power, the ability to slip into a blind rampage had bypassed Sascha completely. He’d faked a few, sure — it wasn’t all that hard when you were an eight-foot orc with the size and magnitude of a small mountain. All Sascha ever had to do was stomp around, snarl, and break things.
Days from death and his most shameful secrets were finally coming to light. Sascha was suddenly grateful Dewpetal didn’t understand most of what he said. Regardless, he still felt the need to clarify a few things. “Even if I could rampage, that is a solid stone wall. I could beat my fists against it until they were bloody stumps and it wouldn’t make a lick of difference. It’s going to take a force greater than me to budge that.”
She may not have understood the bulk of his statement, but the little goblin got the gist of it nonetheless. Dewpetal’s leathery face pulled into a scowl.
Ugh. Why did her expression remind him of his mother? Sascha buried his head into his arms with a groan.
Dewpetal resumed her rounds with a disapproving click of her tongue. She was on what had to be her fifth walkabout when she stopped dead in her tracks. The little goblin’s large ears fanned wide, picking up sounds too faint for Sascha to hear. She lifted her short snout and sniffed the air. Both she and Sascha flinched when a beastly howl erupted from somewhere near the front of the jailhouse. The howl bounced along the stone hallway towards them. It was an otherworldly sound. The sort that came straight out of the faery tales of the old — the kind where the hero went into the deep dark wood, destined to never return.
The howl grew closer.
Dewpetal dropped onto all fours with a panicked squeak and scurried to the back of the cell, tucking herself under the cot as far back as she could go.
Sascha desperately wanted to join her. Once more, his confounded size prevented him from being able to do anything but sit and wait out in the open, exposed to whatever unimaginable nightmare was making its way toward the cell block. For the second time that day, every hair on the nape of his neck stood on end. There was magic in the air, he could feel it. It didn’t belong to Aster this time, however. It felt different. Colder. Older. Something born from an era long forgotten.
As the howling moved closer, so too did the heavy sound of wood and metal being dragged along the stone ground. Sascha was soon able to pick up voices as well. Neither Aster nor Sergeant Windshot sounded grateful for the task they’d been given and were taking their ire out on each other.
“Watch the corner!” Aster shouted from beyond the doorway. The pair were not yet in sight, still struggling to make their way through the narrow corridor leading to the cellblock.
“I am watching the corner!” Sergeant Windshot replied. “This would go a lot quicker if you stopped dropping your end.”
“Excuse me for having sensitive elf ears. That’s not something you would understand, Lorn, is it?” There was a deliberate pause before Aster delivered her crushing blow with a sneer. “Oh wait. I suppose you would, wouldn’t you? Partly, anyway. Based on those ears you work so hard to keep hidden.”
“Oh, shut up and lift, Aster!”
The heavy wooden door banged open and the back of Sergeant Windshot’s body came staggering into view, struggling to keep his end of the large crate from catching on the doorframe. The crate’s size and shape reminded Sascha of a palanquin, except instead of polished mahogany, it was constructed of iron and steel with intricate silver scrollwork weaving up and down its armored sides. Two long iron poles extended from the front and back of the litter, allowing for it to be carried. Judging from the way Aster could barely lift her end off the ground, it required four people to carry it, not two. All part of Cray’s punishment, probably.
A vicious snarl erupted from within the crate. The palanquin lurched violently as whatever was inside hurled its body against the walls of its armored cage. Aster screamed and dropped the carry poles, pulling her arms protectively to her chest. Unable to support the palanquin’s weight all on his own, Lorn lost his grip and the crate struck the stone floor with a resounding slam.
“Dammit, Aster!” The sergeant’s face turned bright red as he hopped up and down on one leg, cradling his injured foot. “Why’d you let go?”
“Don’t yell at me!” The witch’s gloved hands moved from her chest to her throat. She clasped her neck and backed away, prepared to bolt at the first sign of danger. Aster’s wide-eyed stare was not fixed on Sergeant Windshot but on the fallen crate. Whatever was inside now paced back and forth restlessly. Its body made a soft, rattling sound when it moved.
Sergeant Windshot continued his futile one-legged jig. “For the gods’ sake, Aster, you had one job!”
“It tried to attack!”
“It’s in a damn cage!”
“You don’t understand. You have no idea what’s in there.” Aster took a fast gulp of air, adding, “What it’s capable of.”
“I don’t know, your face gives me a pretty good idea.”
Wordlessly, Aster’s glare shifted from the crate to the sergeant.
“What?” Sergeant Windshot snapped. “You can poke fun at my ears but I can’t bring up those unsightly scars on your face? So much for having thick skin, huh?”
“Forget it! I’m done.” Aster whipped around and stomped back through the open doorway. “You can put that damn crate wherever you want. I relocated Cray’s precious pet to the jailhouse, as requested. It’s your problem now.”