Sascha’s mind was walled off from the outside. He was free of the jailhouse and still trapped, only this time it was a cage of his own creation! Four shifting walls of darkness rose high overhead with him smack dab at its center. The space was ever-expanding. No matter how far he ran in any and all directions, the walls remained the same distance away, towering like ancient centuries. The walls appeared solid but there had to be a weak spot somewhere, because every now and then a sense would slip through. Sometimes it was a still-image, a flash of light, a sound, or the faint smell of blood and fear. The details were sparse, however, and never enough to paint a clear picture of what was taking place outside of Sascha’s mental prison.
Whatever it was, it must have been bad. Sascha’s skin buzzed like an angry hornet’s nest trapped under a blanket. The sensation wasn’t strong, just persistent. Cut off or not, he knew the reason behind the obnoxious tremble. The buzz was Cray’s magic desperately trying to worm its way back into Sascha’s thick orc skull. Against all odds, the barrier held, simultaneously keeping Cray out and Sascha’s mental awareness locked firmly inside.
A flare of color erupted in the distance, painting Sascha’s shadowed world in a dazzling blaze of incandescent red and orange. An invisible wave of heat accompanied the flash. It rolled over him. Sascha flinched as the sweltering warmth dispersed the obnoxious buzzing sensation that crawled up and down the inside of his skin. The stench of singed flesh and hair filled his nostrils and lungs. And then, as quickly as the sensations had come, they were gone, filtered out by whatever biological mechanisms were protecting him from the chaos taking place outside of his own damn head.
Alone, confused, cut off from the control of his own body, Sascha was left with only his thoughts. His mind kept wandering back to Oralia and, by extension, his unborn child. The one destined to grow up never having met their father — provided the child was allowed to grow up at all. Cray intended to slaughter Sascha’s family, using him as bait to lure Oralia out of hiding. As much as Sascha wanted to believe she wouldn’t fall for it, he knew the sight of his beaten and battered corpse strung up for all the world to see would cloud her better judgment.
Sascha could prevent that from happening, however. He couldn’t be strung up if there wasn’t anything of him left to hang. Or, better yet, if there wasn’t anyone left to do the hanging. The thought elicited a barrage of emotions. Rage, hate, fear, with a crippling heap of heartbreak. It condensed into a single hot lump at the center of his gut before bursting into a wave of raw energy, adding fuel to the existing fire. He’d need every scrap of motivation he could find to keep the rampage in full swing for as long as possible.
This was the day he was going to die. Soon too, likely. If not by the hand of another, then due to the strain of the rampage itself. He may not have understood the exact manner in which the rampage operated, but its purpose was clear. The chemicals pumping through his veins had not only bound his thoughts but numbed his flesh to touch, as well. It was protecting him from the harsh reality that his body was being torn to bits by magic and steel alike.
For that, Sascha was thankful. He didn’t particularly savor pain and the sight of blood had always made him squeamish. At least this way he could inflict maximum damage to Cray’s forces without having to feel its toll.
He saw another flash of red. Felt a small blip of pain. The sensations immediately faded, swallowed by the dark, looming walls. And then something happened Sascha hadn’t expected. A soft, strained voice called to him from the other side.
“Sascha!” it said, growing louder with each repetition. “Sascha, come out of it!”
It took him a moment to identify the voice as female. His mind didn’t offer a name as to whom the voice belonged, but it was familiar. In a distant, long-forgotten sort of way. The voice was pleasant, he knew that. And Sascha liked the way each soothing word smoothed the blistering heat burning beneath his skin. Alas, it wasn’t enough to convince him to drop his anger. Breaking free meant losing everything that was currently keeping him alive. He didn’t want to die scared and broken, knowing that his final sacrifice had failed.
“Sascha!” the voice kept at it, more strained than before. “Let go, please.”
“Novera!” A second voice rang out, this one belonging to Judge Belfast. It was loud, but further away, echoing in a manner that suggested they were surrounded by stone.
“Stay back, Trant!”
“Stay back, my ass! He’s one squeeze from snapping your neck!” the sound of the judge’s panicked hoofsteps thundered closer.
“He’s almost out of it. Trust me,” the woman replied. Trant’s reluctant steps slowed to stop nearby. A shaky breath followed before her soft voice slipped through Sascha’s mental barrier like water across silk. “Sascha, you’re almost there. I can feel you getting closer. Follow my voice, dear. Whatever you do, don’t squeeze.”
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Squeeze? What was in the seven realms of chaos was she talking about?
Reluctantly, Sascha let go. The dark walls crumbled, allowing shifting swaths of light to flood his mind. His vision returned, slowly, and Sascha found himself knelt over the swampy ground in what looked to be a dark alley. There was someone else with him. He squinted through the haze, realizing the person in question was Novera Belfast. She stared back at him with an alarmingly soft expression for someone who had a giant orc hand curled around her neck.
Sascha released her with a startled gasp. He stared at his hand in disbelief. Knuckles split to the bones, his usual slate gray skin was stained dark red-brown with blood.
What had he done?
“Remember to breathe, love.” Novera’s gentle voice drew Sascha’s attention back to her. His vision was still hazy, riddled with dancing pinpricks of light, but his ability to see detail was steadily trickling back. Novera looked as if she’d been in a fistfight. There was a fresh split across her face and her clothes were dirtied and torn, none of which detracted from the relief that welled within her bright eyes.
“There you are,” she said with a smile. “Welcome back. Take it slow, if you can. Your other senses will return on their own if you let them.”
Sascha twisted his head and peered hard at his muddled surroundings. Judge Belfast hovered nearby, looking far worse for wear than Sascha had last seen him. There was a stolen shortsword held loosely in his right hand. Its formerly polished blade dripped red with blood. Judge Belfast’s expression was grim. He saw Sascha staring and tried to wink. The effort was wasted, however, considering the poor fellow’s left eye was swollen shut and matted with blood, grime, and hair.
Beyond the judge, a thick blanket of gray mist hung heavy in the damp air, making Sascha’s already piss-poor vision work twice as hard. Surrounded by walls of stone, they appeared to be in a dead-end alley wedged between two cottages. The mouth of the alley was dizzyingly bright. Sascha squinted at it harder. Dark shadows darted past through the roiling cloud of early morning mist. There was shouting, too, and the occasional clang of steel on the steel. The ground shook and shuddered in the distance.
The thick clouds shifted overhead and a stray shaft of sunlight flooded the streetway. It poured into the mouth of the alley, highlighting a long trail of bodies lying crumpled in the mud.
Sascha’s heart leapt into his throat, sending a wave of sour stomach acid spilling into his mouth and over his tongue. Oh gods, he thought, glancing back at his bloodied hand. That had been him, hadn’t it? He was the one responsible. How many others had he killed? Who had he killed? The bodies strewn across the ground were all uniformed, but there was no telling who else he’d brought down while caught in the throes of a blind rampage.
Had he hurt others? Civilians? Innocents? Good gods, he’d come to with his hand around Novera’s throat! If he had done that then he could have done anything!
His heartbeat quickened until the sound beat like a drum within his aching head. Sascha’s breathing picked up, faster, faster, faster until his whole chest was so tight it felt like it was going to burst. But no matter how much air he pulled into his burning lungs, it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t breathe.
“You’re losing him, Novera,” Judge Belfast stepped closer, protectively. “Grab the girl and get out of there.”
“Trant,” Novera hissed, shushing him.
“He’s about to go under again.”
Girl? What girl were they talking about? There wasn’t a child in sight! Sascha didn’t have time to get to the bottom of it, however, as Novera was speaking to him again. Her soft, lulling voice lured his attention back to her. “You are not going to slip under again, alright? I’m going to get you out of this. We’re going to start with slow, deep breaths.”
Sascha did as he was instructed. Several breaths later and the tightening in his chest lessened, allowing him to speak. The words cut like broken shards of glass all the way from his throat to his tongue. “What girl?”
Wordlessly, Novera’s amber eyes shifted from Sascha’s face to something lower.
Sascha followed her gaze. He was plastered in blood and grime, desperately cradling a small limp body to his chest with his other arm. He gasped, his sharp breath sending a bolt of metaphorical lighting deep into his burning lungs. Tears fell unbidden, stinging his abraded flesh, as he placed Dewpetal gingerly onto the wet ground.
Novera swept forward and rearranged the little goblin’s head, checking for a pulse just below the jaw, along the windpipe. A deep red and purple line cut across Dewpetal’s throat where the noose had dug into her leathery hide.
They’d hung her. Sascha remembered how the drop had failed to kill her and the way her pitiful body dangled, feet kicking. The sight had driven him mad with rage. After that, things got a bit fuzzy. He didn’t remember how she’d gotten down or ended up tucked in the crook of his arm. It must have been him that ripped her down, surely. Had he fought with only one arm, cradling a goblin like a babe the entire time? Hundreds of unanswered questions flooded his aching skull, but ultimately, there was only one that mattered.
“Is she…” Was all Sascha could rasp out.
“Still breathing,” Novera replied. Although she offered a small, reassuring smile, the worry in her eyes communicated a deeper concern. Her eyes darted to Trant. “Sascha’s out of it now. For the girl’s sake, we can’t linger any longer.”
“The evacuation team said they’d send someone back for us,” Trant said.
“We don’t have that sort of time.”
Trant caught every word Novera didn’t say. His gaze dropped to Dewpetal’s limp body and the hard glint in his working eye softened with pity. “We don’t,” the grizzled faun agreed, turning to limp toward the open end of the dark alley. “I’ll go check, but we may have to make a break for it on our own.”