- Joined
- Nov 12, 2008
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- 13
This is a short story I originally began for Short Story Contest #3, but since I'm totally LAME it took me, like, a year to finish. Even though completed it is ~10 pages 
.
So, anyway if you read it I would appreciate feedback and most of all constructive criticism with no sugar coating, please! Say what you think, how you think it - no sorries, no apologies, no hurt feeling and blah, blah.
.So, anyway if you read it I would appreciate feedback and most of all constructive criticism with no sugar coating, please! Say what you think, how you think it - no sorries, no apologies, no hurt feeling and blah, blah.
“The clouds are nice…” – he thought – “Always free, going where the wind takes them, not having to make decisions, put up with earthly affairs… so free…” – Gol’Tak was lying on the grass, relaxing, his axe by his side, his thoughts and blue eyes in the sky. He smiled, uncovering his old yellowing tusks. He had not seen any patrols for days, and the laxity was getting to him. He reminded himself, that he needs to get going and make no more breaks until dusk. Yawning, he stretched his well built body, his bones cracking in approval, muscles straining for a second, then relaxing. He got up, hang the massive axe on his back and set off.
Gol’Tak was one of the last remaining free orcs, and as such he had to constantly put up with human patrols, attacking him for reason, no other than the color of his skin. So far he hadn’t encountered any real threat. He was a battle-hardened veteran, and even at the end of his prime he was an enemy to be reckoned with. His skills alone would have been sufficient to survive this far, but he felt proud, that no human sword, dagger, spear or even bow could penetrate his breastplate, the only piece of armor he wore, made especially for him by Svarog the Black – war smith of his clan. He toiled over it for many weeks, used fine metal and leather, and the result was exceptional, thick and heavy with no ornaments, only an orc of Gol’Tak’s build could bear it without strain, and it has proven itself – never failing him to this day. He used to polish it every day before and after battle, keeping its black surface ever so shining, he took good care of the leather straps, coating them in fat to prevent deterioration. In battle he felt it as his own skin, and every scratch, every bump hurt his pride, just as they would, if he let them reach his flesh.
But fine as the armour was it could not compare to his other possession.
From the first time the Horde encountered the human race in battle Gol’Tak wondered why they would use such flimsy weapons as short swords, maces, hatchets and the like. Maybe because they were considerably weaker, maybe because they valued speed over power, maybe they were just stupid, but for whatever reason two things were clear:
First of all, the fact brought him dissatisfaction when fighting such mal equipped opponents, because secondly none of their “toys” could measure to his great axe. It was made of the sturdiest wood found throughout all of the Horde’s territories, its head was cast by the best blade smiths in the entire orc race, of the finest steel available and even the shamans have ornamented it with spiritual symbols. Even he with his above-average orc strength had to wield it seriously with both his hands and even to him it seemed heavy. Truly it was a work of art, just as much as it was a work of battle, it had served him well, like his father before him, and his father before that, that same axe was handed down in his family for generations, and with each passing the last owner would make a scratch on the cheek of its head, thus leaving his mark through time with the new generation. Gol’Tak looked at it and, had he not known that, he would think the old thing has seen too many battles at the hands of the inexperienced. He grinned at the thought. He hadn’t realized the sun was going down, while he was lost in his thoughts. But suddenly a swishing sound made him snap out of his relaxed state. Even before he could identify the sound as a missed arrow his muscles were already tensing, eyes were darting in search of the enemy, right hand was reaching for the axe on his back.
He was at a disadvantage – in a forest during summer, the trees were ideal cover for archers, foot soldiers could be hiding, or already pouring out, from behind boulders, if he was ambushed escape was not an option, running would only make him a moving target for the shooter and unfamiliar terrain all amounted to a tough fight… In his language that meant “fun”.
He could not spot the shooter but luckily the arrow missed with just a few inches, and was now stuck in the ground next to him, it was easy enough to determine the point from which it was launched. With that he concluded his strategies, for Gol’Tak was not just an ordinary orc, he had the mind of a warchief or at least, that of a tactician, though he never cared for such positions.
He placed the steel head of his axe in front of his head just in time to hear a chining sound from a deflected metal-headed arrow. He wasted no more time and sprung to a zigzag between the trees and what large rocks were nearby. He would first confront the archer, him being the biggest threat in such a situation, he expected at least a few soldiers to be guarding him, whom he could use not only as indication to his precise location, but they could prove useful as shields, if they had none themselves, once they were dead. Anticipating additional forces to appear Gol’Tak had several plans to put in motion, once the situation changes but all in good time. Another arrow missed him, and struck a tree instead. He was closing in, he almost couldn’t wait to see the soldiers.
Suddenly a grim realization halted him just behind a tree. He didn’t hear anything. No sounds of footsteps, running or any movement. No ringing of armor or any weapons, not even a provocative shout. This saddened him, it was just a lone archer or two. Too easy... annoying, but easy. Gloomily the orc warrior put the axe on his back. It was silent, the archer was not moving, either unwilling to reveal his position or not smart enough to do it. Whispering the words “Sitting duck.” to himself he jumped out of the tree’s cover, ready to dodge incoming arrows from the three trees, where, by his calculations, the shooter could be hiding. Instead a shot came from a fourth place. It hit him in the left shoulder causing him to snarl at the fact he was facing an elf. Apart from forest trolls Gol’Tak knew only of elves as creatures capable of moving in forests without making a sound. And they annoyed him for that. He had to change tactics, driving the pointy-eared pansy from the tree tops would prove futile and tiring, and while he was there he was nigh invincible. One thing he did not have, however, was an endless supply of arrows. The cunning orc began fainting escape, running at speed he knew the elf could follow, dashing from side to side only to avoid an arrow, still elves were exceptional archers and taking a shot or two would put the long-eared skirt-wearing sissy in a false sense of security. And it seemed his plan was working – more and more arrows were being carelessly fired and easily dodged. Not after long the rain of arrows ceased. Gol’Tak slowed his running to a fast walk and swaying reached a suitable rock, where he stumbled and sat still with his axe slipped from his right hand.
“He is dying.” – thought the elf to himself – “Even an animal as stupid as him wouldn’t be able to survive with so many arrows stuck in his body.” – Pederast O’smi smiled at himself and pulled his long blonde hair back – “At least he will make an excellent pin cushion.” Just as any other elf he too considered orcs somewhere below humans but above cockroaches, this one even made him fire all his arrows before he was brought down and he would not allow the monster a death so painless and calm. He volunteered to patrol this forest only for opportunities such as this, while neither he, nor his family ever had any contact with orcs, he had heard stories about the “Greenskins”, which were becoming more of a blood-chilling legend, rather than real facts. He jumped from his branch to the ground, pulled his short sword from its sheath and advanced carefully. Even from half an arrow shot it was clear the orc would not get up again, but these beasts got dangerous, when they realized they were dying, it was something about their pride, honor and such. Pederast did not care and in a moment it would not matter anyway but he had to admit – there was truth in those stories, he could see why such a brute could become a fearsome legend, even if he were a pitiful opponent.
“You are dying, monster.” – said Pederast, once he reached the aging orc, he knew the beast did not understand elfish and he did not care. – “I am going to put an end to your misery, may you burn in whatever hell you crawled from!” – And he raised his sword for the killing blow.
The elf gibbered something in his language, sounding just as silly as he looked. Gol’Tak suppressed a chuckle seeing how such a slender and brittle frame would approach him with nothing more than a toothpick. Just as the girl-man was raising his cutting knife Gol’Tak said to him in his own language – “You elves seem to be just as arrogant as you are girly.” – not waiting for the brow, the elf raised in astonishment, to come down the orc leapt forward, grabbing the surprised elf by his throat with his right arm, while disarming him with his left. He threw the small blade away, lifted the frail creature until his feet would not touch the ground and his face was ready to cry tears. Allowing himself a pause to enjoy the look in his eyes he then threw him to the ground and went for his axe. Taking his time he bent over it slowly, gripped its throat tightly and firmly, stood up and looked himself in its smooth head and then turned around, landing a blow quick and strong as a great bear upon the short sword. Where there was a small piece of metal now were many little pieces and an even more scared, predictable elf. Opponents, who did just what you expected them – waste all their arrows, face you with no advantage, reach for their lost weapons – just were not fun. He had wasted enough time playing with this enemy, and he was losing blood, so he prepared for the final blow.
The orc was going to strike, Pederast O’smi did not want to die, he was afraid of death, all he ever heard about “dying with dignity and pride” didn’t made much sense to him, if he was going to die it would be all over and it did not matter how he did it. Flat on his back it all seemed futile. The fear had already overtaken him and all he could do was snivel, kick aimlessly the dirt and try to deny his fate. His bow slipped from his arm, when he reached for his sword, now in pieces, there was no hope. And his whole world came crashing down, as the orc swung his massive axe.
It was over. Gol’Tak cleaned the head of his axe, glanced at the elf and couldn’t help but laugh at his surprised expression. With that he set out to care for his wounds, leaving the tree hugger to stare in amazement at his former bow. A quick examination of his body revealed no major wounds and apart from the blood loss he was in no real danger. He once again had to thank his breastplate for that but his smile turned to shock, when he was about to gently caress it. His stare was fixed upon a breach in his magnificent metal skin, a single elven arrow has cracked a piece of his prized possession and drew blood! He felt fury for a moment but sadness quickly replaced it, it was not the elf to lame, nor the arrow, nor the metal skin itself – it was his fault for taking too great a pride in his armor that led to this unfortunate fact. This line of thoughts made the sad warrior realize that his armor was failing. With no orc blacksmith to fix it Gol’Tak was not sure how much it had left. And he had another problem – he could apply herbs to the wounds and bandage them but he would need to rest in a safe place for at least a day or two.
A long sleepless night and an even longer day have passed since the lone orc spared the elf. He did not know where he is but there was no cover, not even a cave and survival in this landscape was as alien to him, as the world it belonged to. If he did not come across some sort of shelter he would have to risk being helpless in enemy territory. His troubles didn’t end there, however, his wounds didn’t close with no sleep and pained him, and on top of that the wound on his pride, under which resided the wound of the accursed arrow caused him a slight tightness in his chest.
His mind was starting to play tricks on him, too long has he gone with no sleep. He thought he saw a metal cave protruding above the tree tops. The orc shook his head and dismissed the image as the product of a tired mind. He looked once again to confirm his suspicion, but the mirage was not gone, on the contrary, upon fixing his sight on it longer he saw a glass lid covering the cave, and realized this was no cave at all… it was goblins.
The goblins aided the Horde during its campaign of conquest, for it fulfilled both their desires for money and destruction. But after the Horde’s fall they were quick to declare neutrality and offer their services to both orcs and humans, basically to anyone who could pay the price. Gol’Tak knew goblins were just as greedy as they were cunning. But with little to no choice he directed himself to the metal structure.
It wasn’t far away and just after a few minutes he saw the “tiny green skins” hopping and tinkering around their tower. He was spotted and immediately three goblins rushed to greet him.
“Welcome, traveler! You came to the right place! May we interest you in some fine items?” – said the first goblin with a squeaky voice.
“Perhaps you are interested in potions? We have it all here!” – continued the second.
“Or perhaps, you need other services? Our demolition teams are at your disposal!” – finished the third.
“I…” – was all Gol’Tak managed to say, before they interrupted him.
“By the looks of you you’re in need of our top-rate healing potions, two should save you from death, but if you but three we will throw a free “Potion of Invulnerability” sample!”
“Or perhaps you would fancy a fancy ring of regeneration?”
“No, I only wish for asylum.” – the three goblins stopped their exited rants and stared for a couple of seconds in astonishment . Upon bringing themselves to their senses they looked at each-other and began squeaking in their own language. The orc waited.
“Wait a moment, please!” – said one goblin before he ran off to the building. He returned short after alongside an elderly-looking representative of his race. He had a white beard, quite long for goblins and even his ears were almost covered in gray hairs, a pair of rusty goggles rested on his forehead and his yellow eyes were dimmed. Compared to the other goblins he looked well-groomed, almost like a goblin royalty, even if the term is used loosely. He was wearing brown leather gloves, a khaki shirt, now unbuttoned and showing his unremarkable physique, holding a golden-colored wrench in his right hand and all manner of gadgets and tools hanging from his belt, making it seem as if any moment his gray overalls would tear from the weight. This surprising image was not obscured even by all the dust and oil stains that covered him.
The goblin finally reached Gol’Tak and spoke in an unusually deep voice for his race – “I hear you seek asylum.”
“That is correct. I need a place to stay for a day and given your neutral status, accommodation at your… tower… should mean a sanctuary for me, until I leave.”
“Such a service would cost you a fortune.” – said the goblin, while obviously examining his person – “You do not seem to possess much, apart from the clothes on your back and war gear.”
“Is there some other way, something else you might require?” – exhausted, the orc knew it would come to this, and he had few options, hope being the best of them.
The goblin chief crossed his hands in front of his chest and seemed to be in deep thought. This was a good sign, it meant there was something he wanted – a favor, request, anything would be …
“Your armor.”
The words interrupted Gol’Tak’s relaxed and confident thoughts. For a second he just stood, motionless, the idea itself seeming ridiculous at first. Not one to do anything rash, he paused and though about it.
‘Me and the armor are one, I have relied on it in countless battles and it has never failed me… until now. The goblin is obviously trying to pressure me into giving it to him, since he has something I want… no something I NEED… it will be a high price to pay for such a service… but I am tired… and the armor is failing… but no, no – it was made especially for me I cannot just give it away… I should just give it and get It all… over with…’
As the orc agreed and started to loosen the straps on his chest the goblin smiled, looking at the bags under the brute’s eyes, thinking to himself that sleep deprivation has played a bad trick on him… and a huge profitable role for his shop.
The black breastplate dropped to the ground with a loud “THUD” sound, revealing amazing well-formed muscles… and bleeding wounds. Gei Vulshebnik, the chief goblin, smirked and started shouting orders and within seconds goblins were leading him and his former armor to relative safety. At last sleep and comfort were within grasp.
The reception was surprisingly hospitable, from within all of the structure goblins were pouring out to meet Gol’Tak. He had not yet seen another place, such as this, it consisted of multiple floors, each fitted with numerous shelves, each of them in turn, fitted with all sort of gadgets, parts, potions and such. One could easily reach the top of the tower from the ground floor, since all of the above floors actually were just rings of shelves and catwalks on the wall, and systems of ladders sprouted everywhere.
Seconds later the tired warrior realized how wrong he was, what he mistook for hospitality actually would be better described as “gathering of a huge number of necromancer acolytes around the only sacrificial lamb in town”. There were so many voices and so many offers for so many discounted, magical, ultimate, wonderful, godly, divine, super-duper, mega, supreme potions/items/charms, that he actually got a migraine. When things went too far Gei Vulshebnik ordered everybody back to work and within a second, just like that, the ground floor was empty, a cloud of dust left to symbolize the speed with which the greenskins vanished. The boss goblin turned to the breastplate and its carriers and with the widest smile, ever withnessed by Gol’Tak, said something very slowly and obviously carefully descriptive. When he finished the armor was being moved to a small room, just near the entrance.
“Bed is there.” – was what returned the orc to reality. Upon looking where he was pointed at he saw a small “bed”, complete with a “blanket” and straw. He guessed the straw was a bonus. – “You are going to need this.” – the goblin handled him a familiar green vial entitled “Potion of Healing”, since this was not a part of the negotiated service it was obvious the cunning “fox” wanted something more from him. Being on the brink of exhaustion and definitely not in the position to refuse, Gol’Tak drank it in one gulp. Familiar warmness spread from his stomach to his limbs and entire body, he felt how it was rejuvenating, the muscles forming, the bones healing and the skin growing. Soon the wound was nothing more than a scar, and even sooner this will all be nothing more than a dream, he thought as he was closing his eyes, ready for the long awaited sleep.
Quarreling… shouting… rage… sniveling… bargaining… shouting… apologies… these thoughts got through to Gol’Tak and signaled his brain to awake. Slowly his eyelids began to open, sounds began to make sense to his ears. The world was blurry. A rub on his eyes as he was yawning cleared that right up. It appeared someone was arguing with a goblin… typical – goblin inventions often worked just fine… for goblins, for the other races they tended to be dangerous, flammable, exploding, on fire, unregulated, deadly to the user and squeaky. Goblins found them to be perfectly fine – since that’s their whole ideology. Had it been just that the orc would have dismissed it and went back to sleep, but then he heard the words “orc”, “hide” and “accomplice”. He could not make out the full sentence, but it was enough to arouse his suspicion, he crept closer to hear the conversation. As he peaked from the edge of a wooden crate he saw a blond muscular middle-aged human male with the most well-groomed moustache outside of a dwarf’s beard , Gol’Tak had ever seen. It was hard to tell if he was wearing the moustache or was the moustache wearing him, from his straight posture with a thrown out chest and the look in his brown eyes it was obvious this was a warrior, but one who has never seen blood on the battlefield or ever faced an opponent in a battle to the death. The human was covered in guard armor, all the shining badges suggested he was an officer or captain. Behind him there were another two human males, apart from the different hair color, lack of both an epic moustache and shining badges the orc could not differentiate between the three. Humans all looked like the same flesh whetstones for his axe. The conversation went on, but it was in human, so Gol’Tak understood little.
“Then surrender him immediately!” – said the “captain”
“But, chief Mutra, he is under asylum as long as his stay at our… abode is paid.” – replied the goblin, speaking with him. He seemed ordinary for his race – short, green and sly. Judging by his purple garments and rectangular reading glasses, Gol’Tak decided it must be some kind of an emissary, diplomat or bureaucrat.
“Goblin jurisdiction is meaningless to us, the Alliance allows you to live freely, because you claim neutrality. But clearly this act of sheltering a dangerous war criminal means you are still loyal to the Horde. This wouldn’t sit well with the governor.”
“Allow me to correct you, sir – we are not sheltering anyone, even less a dangerous criminal. We are simply providing accommodations to a well-paid customer. The fact that he is of orcish blood matters little. True you claim he is a war criminal, but do you have any proof?”
“… the word of the city guard should be enough proof for you!”
“Not, quite. For you see, even if the city guard is honorable and rarely makes mistakes a simple “guess” has no value as evidence. But even should you prove his guilt, he is still staying under our neutral roof, therefore granting him asylum until he decides to leave, or until his money run out.”
It was apparent “chief Mutra” did not like being shown he is wrong, his face was starting to acquire a crimson nuance since the start of the goblin’s reply and was already quire red by the end of it.
“I will not have you hinder my investigation! Surrender the orc immediately or we will undertake offensive actions!”
“Should you present us with a written document, declaring the Alliance’s involvement in this matter, and their full support of your actions, signed by all the lords, stamped and sealed with the official seal… we will have no choice but to comply.” – the goblin could not help but grin. This was the last straw for the human.
“That’s it! Burn it! Trash it! Burn it to the ground, boys! Kill all of the little nuisances that get in our way!”
“There is no need for that.” – Gol’Tak stepped out of the shadows, just as chief Mutra was drawing his sword. This sudden appearance, coupled with the orc’s bulk clearly surprised the guards. The chief took a step back, while his adjutants took two. – “Was is your point with me?” – while the goblins knew orcish, almost none of the orcs knew human, and those who did, like Gol’Tak, knew it barely enough to make a point across.
“A-HA! So the foul beast finally shows himself! Now will you come with us quietly or do we have to force you?”
“Force me.” – while this did not surprise anyone, the sensation of doubt and fear was clear on the faces of the chief’s subordinates. This would be easy for Gol’Tak. If he killed the leader, the rest would crumble.
“Very well, then. I will vanquish you alone, monster! I will not even need help from my fellow guardsmen!” – at this moment Mutra was so engulfed in his own dreams of the glory, fame and respect killing this one orc, alone would bring him, that he failed to judge the situation correctly… a mistake he will come to regret. – “Ready your blade!”
The orc readied his axe and took three steps towards his opponent. The human, too excited to wait, charged straight for him. Gol’Tak raised his axe above his head slowly, waiting for the right moment. Mutra saw that and thought since the orc was so big, he was obviously slow, and seized the opportunity to attack his open belly. As he reached the range of his axe, the human quickly jumped left to dodge the strike the orc was obviously readying and proceeded to stab him.
It would all have worked out perfectly, had he not been completely blinded by his ego. The orc purposely acted as if he was slow to act, while in truth orcs train to be big AND fast in battle. That almost cost Mutra his arm, luckily he was able to deflect the attack just barely with his sword. Now he swung his sword above his head to the orc’s right shoulder – it was a hit… a deliberate one. Gol’Tak used this chance to make a reverse-swing with his axe. With his sword jabbed the human had neither the means nor the time to react and that cost him an arm. A right one, to be precise.
It took a couple of seconds for the pain to start. Seconds for which Gol’Tak permitted the human to live. His adjutants watched in horror as he was rolling on the ground shrieking sounds of unimaginable agony while holding his bleeding stump. One of them actually went all pale and vomited.
An orcish warrior fights with pride and honor. After such a clear victory it would be honorable to rid his enemy of the coming pain. A clean swing, a bloody axe and a rolling head later Gol’Tak was fixing his eyes on the other two. And they knew it. Even the goblin, who had never taken part in a physical conflict understood that by the way they were running for their lives a second later. It would hurt his pride if he let them escape, not to mention it would be foolish to let them inform a whole city there was an orc nearby.
They had never waged war, never fought anyone on their level or anyone with guts for that matter. And until now they never knew what the proverb “Running from the Devil” actually felt like. As if that’s not enough now they were beginning to understand what “Running from the Devil and feeling your pants fill with urine as you see him catching up with you” felt like too. Each one of the ex-subordinates was hoping the other would slow him down considerably. While you run for your life there isn’t that much to occupy your thoughts.
“At least I got to run a bit.” – was going through Gol’Tak’s mind at this point. That and a curse about him being out of shape. It wasn’t more than 200 meters sprint with a battle axe in his arm and he was starting to pant and feel pain in his chest. For a second he considered letting them go. But that was quickly dismissed, for a warrior never quits in the face of such a minor inconvenience.
For him giving up now would be as unnatural as flying. He lived for battle, for that feeling of superiority and satisfaction when the blood of your enemy is spraying all over your body. Nothing else, neither commanding other orcs, neither making love to a woman, neither overwhelming your opponent with tactics and intelligence brought such pleasure. It is simple – orcs were made to do battle! To fight, kill, die and fight again. Fish did not stop swimming and birds did not stop flying, warriors did not give up. Even as he steadily reminded himself that he felt he did it not because he did not know it… but rather because the discomfort was growing stronger and his body was more and more ready to give up. The humans were gaining distance but that was of little relevance now, as his chest was pierced by the sharpest weapon ever known – pain. He felt his legs slow down, his arms relax motionlessly like dead twigs and as the world faded to black he felt, rather than heard, the thumping sound of his axe against the soil… or was it his body?
Someone was chanting. Gol’Tak opened his eyes. There was a goblin standing beside him weaving magic, he was dressed in white clothing - a coat and a small hat, all with a red cross on them. The inscription on them jogged some memories – it read “Resuscitation team” on several languages. He suddenly gasped for air, it was as if his lungs have been empty for hours and just now needed to fill the vacuum with air. The world slowly stopped spinning, Gol’Tak carefully rose from the ground and asked what had happened.
“How old are you, ogre?” – asked the goblin-medic
“I am no ogre, I am an orc, can’t you see?!”
“Yes, yes, formalities, how OLD are you?”
“Late seventy-six.”
“And have you experienced similar pain before?” – the orc shook his head with hesitation – “I have good news and bad news. I’ll start with the bad…” – the goblin did not wait for any reaction from Gol’Tak – “…you have heart-disease, your heart is too old for you to keep going at such a pace. But the good news is that we have an excellent heart-retiring plan - only today 35% discount!”
Gol’Tak didn’t listen, his ears just stopped hearing, his eyes stopped seeing, his whole body stopped feeling. It wouldn’t have been so terrible if deep inside he didn’t know it to be true…
He tried to fight it, told himself the goblin was wrong, told himself he could fight with a sick heart, but all was for nothing. He knew better. Should he allow his pride to cloud his judgment, next time he may never wake up.
After what seemed like an eternity he came to his senses and decided to do something about it. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and asked:
“What can be done for me?”
“Well, as I was just explaining our “Golden Heart” plan will…”
“I need medicine. Magic. Shamanism. SOMETHING to keep me fighting.”
At first the goblin stood speechless for a second or two. Then said slowly: “You CAN NOT fight and live! You choose – stress yourself again and die, or live out the rest of your life in peace… ALIVE!”
“Only thing we can offer you is medicine. It will make the pain stop, but nothing more. It won’t heal your heart.” – intervened Gei Vulshebnik
Gol’Tak wished he needed few seconds to ponder, but he already knew the answer.
“How much does it cost?”
“Three thousand gold pieces”
“THREE THOU…” – the orc’s massive jaw almost unhinged itself in an effort to drop to the ground from astonishment. It was obvious the medicine did not cost so much, the goblins were, of course, merely taking advantage. Three thousand gold pieces was the price of a well trained war horse, complete with armour and equipment. Three thousand gold pieces was the combined worth of several peasant households. Three thousand gold pieces…
“…would be the price of your fine axe.” – said Gei Vulshebnik with a clear grin of excitement on his face.
Gol’Tak’s face was stone-serious, there were only slight expressions of hate - his lightly tightened eyelids, the faintest suggestion of a frown. He tried hard to keep these emotions in check since his current situation was especially bad - not only was he cornered by the goblins with an extreme price for a medicine he needed to survive, he was also unable to plain slaughter them all due to the same need for the medication. From all angles it seemed there was only one option and he didn’t like it one bit.
His axe… his weapon… his spirit. It has become an extension of his own body, why he would sooner give up one of his own arms than the axe… but he doubted the goblins had any need for an extra arm. During these past few hours… days… it seemed his determination has been questioned more than during his entire service with the Horde. Was it destiny? Was it divine intervention? Had the spirits decided it was time for atonement? Punishment?
…or was it simply a joke from Reality.
He couldn’t do it. His mind was telling him “yes” but every fiber of his body was yelling “NO!”. Yet… what is the alternative? One final battle and then… death? Many would question the advantages of a short, yet passionate life compared to a long and dull one. Warriors lived the former kind. Death was so possible even the greenest recruits get used to stare it in the eyes every other week. “To accept death, but not seek it.” – one of the first lessons learned during training. Then why was he clinging so hard to life? Was is because dying on the battlefield was honorable? Quicker? Less painful? He did not know. All he knew was that there was a medicine and there was a way to obtain it. Simple as that. As he was nearing the end of his thoughts Gei Vulshebnik was already handling the transportation of the axe.
Some formal words were exchanged. A small flask given. A head drooped. An axe and dignity lost and a journey begun.
What would he do now, Gol’Tak wondered. He was already going nowhere for nothing and no one. At the very least he had to begin a new life of peace and solitude… he had heard that there are some manner of “orc preservation camps”. They sounded nice and quiet.
He headed in search of one to call his home.
Gol’Tak was one of the last remaining free orcs, and as such he had to constantly put up with human patrols, attacking him for reason, no other than the color of his skin. So far he hadn’t encountered any real threat. He was a battle-hardened veteran, and even at the end of his prime he was an enemy to be reckoned with. His skills alone would have been sufficient to survive this far, but he felt proud, that no human sword, dagger, spear or even bow could penetrate his breastplate, the only piece of armor he wore, made especially for him by Svarog the Black – war smith of his clan. He toiled over it for many weeks, used fine metal and leather, and the result was exceptional, thick and heavy with no ornaments, only an orc of Gol’Tak’s build could bear it without strain, and it has proven itself – never failing him to this day. He used to polish it every day before and after battle, keeping its black surface ever so shining, he took good care of the leather straps, coating them in fat to prevent deterioration. In battle he felt it as his own skin, and every scratch, every bump hurt his pride, just as they would, if he let them reach his flesh.
But fine as the armour was it could not compare to his other possession.
From the first time the Horde encountered the human race in battle Gol’Tak wondered why they would use such flimsy weapons as short swords, maces, hatchets and the like. Maybe because they were considerably weaker, maybe because they valued speed over power, maybe they were just stupid, but for whatever reason two things were clear:
First of all, the fact brought him dissatisfaction when fighting such mal equipped opponents, because secondly none of their “toys” could measure to his great axe. It was made of the sturdiest wood found throughout all of the Horde’s territories, its head was cast by the best blade smiths in the entire orc race, of the finest steel available and even the shamans have ornamented it with spiritual symbols. Even he with his above-average orc strength had to wield it seriously with both his hands and even to him it seemed heavy. Truly it was a work of art, just as much as it was a work of battle, it had served him well, like his father before him, and his father before that, that same axe was handed down in his family for generations, and with each passing the last owner would make a scratch on the cheek of its head, thus leaving his mark through time with the new generation. Gol’Tak looked at it and, had he not known that, he would think the old thing has seen too many battles at the hands of the inexperienced. He grinned at the thought. He hadn’t realized the sun was going down, while he was lost in his thoughts. But suddenly a swishing sound made him snap out of his relaxed state. Even before he could identify the sound as a missed arrow his muscles were already tensing, eyes were darting in search of the enemy, right hand was reaching for the axe on his back.
He was at a disadvantage – in a forest during summer, the trees were ideal cover for archers, foot soldiers could be hiding, or already pouring out, from behind boulders, if he was ambushed escape was not an option, running would only make him a moving target for the shooter and unfamiliar terrain all amounted to a tough fight… In his language that meant “fun”.
He could not spot the shooter but luckily the arrow missed with just a few inches, and was now stuck in the ground next to him, it was easy enough to determine the point from which it was launched. With that he concluded his strategies, for Gol’Tak was not just an ordinary orc, he had the mind of a warchief or at least, that of a tactician, though he never cared for such positions.
He placed the steel head of his axe in front of his head just in time to hear a chining sound from a deflected metal-headed arrow. He wasted no more time and sprung to a zigzag between the trees and what large rocks were nearby. He would first confront the archer, him being the biggest threat in such a situation, he expected at least a few soldiers to be guarding him, whom he could use not only as indication to his precise location, but they could prove useful as shields, if they had none themselves, once they were dead. Anticipating additional forces to appear Gol’Tak had several plans to put in motion, once the situation changes but all in good time. Another arrow missed him, and struck a tree instead. He was closing in, he almost couldn’t wait to see the soldiers.
Suddenly a grim realization halted him just behind a tree. He didn’t hear anything. No sounds of footsteps, running or any movement. No ringing of armor or any weapons, not even a provocative shout. This saddened him, it was just a lone archer or two. Too easy... annoying, but easy. Gloomily the orc warrior put the axe on his back. It was silent, the archer was not moving, either unwilling to reveal his position or not smart enough to do it. Whispering the words “Sitting duck.” to himself he jumped out of the tree’s cover, ready to dodge incoming arrows from the three trees, where, by his calculations, the shooter could be hiding. Instead a shot came from a fourth place. It hit him in the left shoulder causing him to snarl at the fact he was facing an elf. Apart from forest trolls Gol’Tak knew only of elves as creatures capable of moving in forests without making a sound. And they annoyed him for that. He had to change tactics, driving the pointy-eared pansy from the tree tops would prove futile and tiring, and while he was there he was nigh invincible. One thing he did not have, however, was an endless supply of arrows. The cunning orc began fainting escape, running at speed he knew the elf could follow, dashing from side to side only to avoid an arrow, still elves were exceptional archers and taking a shot or two would put the long-eared skirt-wearing sissy in a false sense of security. And it seemed his plan was working – more and more arrows were being carelessly fired and easily dodged. Not after long the rain of arrows ceased. Gol’Tak slowed his running to a fast walk and swaying reached a suitable rock, where he stumbled and sat still with his axe slipped from his right hand.
***
“He is dying.” – thought the elf to himself – “Even an animal as stupid as him wouldn’t be able to survive with so many arrows stuck in his body.” – Pederast O’smi smiled at himself and pulled his long blonde hair back – “At least he will make an excellent pin cushion.” Just as any other elf he too considered orcs somewhere below humans but above cockroaches, this one even made him fire all his arrows before he was brought down and he would not allow the monster a death so painless and calm. He volunteered to patrol this forest only for opportunities such as this, while neither he, nor his family ever had any contact with orcs, he had heard stories about the “Greenskins”, which were becoming more of a blood-chilling legend, rather than real facts. He jumped from his branch to the ground, pulled his short sword from its sheath and advanced carefully. Even from half an arrow shot it was clear the orc would not get up again, but these beasts got dangerous, when they realized they were dying, it was something about their pride, honor and such. Pederast did not care and in a moment it would not matter anyway but he had to admit – there was truth in those stories, he could see why such a brute could become a fearsome legend, even if he were a pitiful opponent.
“You are dying, monster.” – said Pederast, once he reached the aging orc, he knew the beast did not understand elfish and he did not care. – “I am going to put an end to your misery, may you burn in whatever hell you crawled from!” – And he raised his sword for the killing blow.
***
The elf gibbered something in his language, sounding just as silly as he looked. Gol’Tak suppressed a chuckle seeing how such a slender and brittle frame would approach him with nothing more than a toothpick. Just as the girl-man was raising his cutting knife Gol’Tak said to him in his own language – “You elves seem to be just as arrogant as you are girly.” – not waiting for the brow, the elf raised in astonishment, to come down the orc leapt forward, grabbing the surprised elf by his throat with his right arm, while disarming him with his left. He threw the small blade away, lifted the frail creature until his feet would not touch the ground and his face was ready to cry tears. Allowing himself a pause to enjoy the look in his eyes he then threw him to the ground and went for his axe. Taking his time he bent over it slowly, gripped its throat tightly and firmly, stood up and looked himself in its smooth head and then turned around, landing a blow quick and strong as a great bear upon the short sword. Where there was a small piece of metal now were many little pieces and an even more scared, predictable elf. Opponents, who did just what you expected them – waste all their arrows, face you with no advantage, reach for their lost weapons – just were not fun. He had wasted enough time playing with this enemy, and he was losing blood, so he prepared for the final blow.
***
The orc was going to strike, Pederast O’smi did not want to die, he was afraid of death, all he ever heard about “dying with dignity and pride” didn’t made much sense to him, if he was going to die it would be all over and it did not matter how he did it. Flat on his back it all seemed futile. The fear had already overtaken him and all he could do was snivel, kick aimlessly the dirt and try to deny his fate. His bow slipped from his arm, when he reached for his sword, now in pieces, there was no hope. And his whole world came crashing down, as the orc swung his massive axe.
***
It was over. Gol’Tak cleaned the head of his axe, glanced at the elf and couldn’t help but laugh at his surprised expression. With that he set out to care for his wounds, leaving the tree hugger to stare in amazement at his former bow. A quick examination of his body revealed no major wounds and apart from the blood loss he was in no real danger. He once again had to thank his breastplate for that but his smile turned to shock, when he was about to gently caress it. His stare was fixed upon a breach in his magnificent metal skin, a single elven arrow has cracked a piece of his prized possession and drew blood! He felt fury for a moment but sadness quickly replaced it, it was not the elf to lame, nor the arrow, nor the metal skin itself – it was his fault for taking too great a pride in his armor that led to this unfortunate fact. This line of thoughts made the sad warrior realize that his armor was failing. With no orc blacksmith to fix it Gol’Tak was not sure how much it had left. And he had another problem – he could apply herbs to the wounds and bandage them but he would need to rest in a safe place for at least a day or two.
***
A long sleepless night and an even longer day have passed since the lone orc spared the elf. He did not know where he is but there was no cover, not even a cave and survival in this landscape was as alien to him, as the world it belonged to. If he did not come across some sort of shelter he would have to risk being helpless in enemy territory. His troubles didn’t end there, however, his wounds didn’t close with no sleep and pained him, and on top of that the wound on his pride, under which resided the wound of the accursed arrow caused him a slight tightness in his chest.
His mind was starting to play tricks on him, too long has he gone with no sleep. He thought he saw a metal cave protruding above the tree tops. The orc shook his head and dismissed the image as the product of a tired mind. He looked once again to confirm his suspicion, but the mirage was not gone, on the contrary, upon fixing his sight on it longer he saw a glass lid covering the cave, and realized this was no cave at all… it was goblins.
The goblins aided the Horde during its campaign of conquest, for it fulfilled both their desires for money and destruction. But after the Horde’s fall they were quick to declare neutrality and offer their services to both orcs and humans, basically to anyone who could pay the price. Gol’Tak knew goblins were just as greedy as they were cunning. But with little to no choice he directed himself to the metal structure.
It wasn’t far away and just after a few minutes he saw the “tiny green skins” hopping and tinkering around their tower. He was spotted and immediately three goblins rushed to greet him.
“Welcome, traveler! You came to the right place! May we interest you in some fine items?” – said the first goblin with a squeaky voice.
“Perhaps you are interested in potions? We have it all here!” – continued the second.
“Or perhaps, you need other services? Our demolition teams are at your disposal!” – finished the third.
“I…” – was all Gol’Tak managed to say, before they interrupted him.
“By the looks of you you’re in need of our top-rate healing potions, two should save you from death, but if you but three we will throw a free “Potion of Invulnerability” sample!”
“Or perhaps you would fancy a fancy ring of regeneration?”
“No, I only wish for asylum.” – the three goblins stopped their exited rants and stared for a couple of seconds in astonishment . Upon bringing themselves to their senses they looked at each-other and began squeaking in their own language. The orc waited.
“Wait a moment, please!” – said one goblin before he ran off to the building. He returned short after alongside an elderly-looking representative of his race. He had a white beard, quite long for goblins and even his ears were almost covered in gray hairs, a pair of rusty goggles rested on his forehead and his yellow eyes were dimmed. Compared to the other goblins he looked well-groomed, almost like a goblin royalty, even if the term is used loosely. He was wearing brown leather gloves, a khaki shirt, now unbuttoned and showing his unremarkable physique, holding a golden-colored wrench in his right hand and all manner of gadgets and tools hanging from his belt, making it seem as if any moment his gray overalls would tear from the weight. This surprising image was not obscured even by all the dust and oil stains that covered him.
The goblin finally reached Gol’Tak and spoke in an unusually deep voice for his race – “I hear you seek asylum.”
“That is correct. I need a place to stay for a day and given your neutral status, accommodation at your… tower… should mean a sanctuary for me, until I leave.”
“Such a service would cost you a fortune.” – said the goblin, while obviously examining his person – “You do not seem to possess much, apart from the clothes on your back and war gear.”
“Is there some other way, something else you might require?” – exhausted, the orc knew it would come to this, and he had few options, hope being the best of them.
The goblin chief crossed his hands in front of his chest and seemed to be in deep thought. This was a good sign, it meant there was something he wanted – a favor, request, anything would be …
“Your armor.”
The words interrupted Gol’Tak’s relaxed and confident thoughts. For a second he just stood, motionless, the idea itself seeming ridiculous at first. Not one to do anything rash, he paused and though about it.
‘Me and the armor are one, I have relied on it in countless battles and it has never failed me… until now. The goblin is obviously trying to pressure me into giving it to him, since he has something I want… no something I NEED… it will be a high price to pay for such a service… but I am tired… and the armor is failing… but no, no – it was made especially for me I cannot just give it away… I should just give it and get It all… over with…’
As the orc agreed and started to loosen the straps on his chest the goblin smiled, looking at the bags under the brute’s eyes, thinking to himself that sleep deprivation has played a bad trick on him… and a huge profitable role for his shop.
The black breastplate dropped to the ground with a loud “THUD” sound, revealing amazing well-formed muscles… and bleeding wounds. Gei Vulshebnik, the chief goblin, smirked and started shouting orders and within seconds goblins were leading him and his former armor to relative safety. At last sleep and comfort were within grasp.
***
The reception was surprisingly hospitable, from within all of the structure goblins were pouring out to meet Gol’Tak. He had not yet seen another place, such as this, it consisted of multiple floors, each fitted with numerous shelves, each of them in turn, fitted with all sort of gadgets, parts, potions and such. One could easily reach the top of the tower from the ground floor, since all of the above floors actually were just rings of shelves and catwalks on the wall, and systems of ladders sprouted everywhere.
Seconds later the tired warrior realized how wrong he was, what he mistook for hospitality actually would be better described as “gathering of a huge number of necromancer acolytes around the only sacrificial lamb in town”. There were so many voices and so many offers for so many discounted, magical, ultimate, wonderful, godly, divine, super-duper, mega, supreme potions/items/charms, that he actually got a migraine. When things went too far Gei Vulshebnik ordered everybody back to work and within a second, just like that, the ground floor was empty, a cloud of dust left to symbolize the speed with which the greenskins vanished. The boss goblin turned to the breastplate and its carriers and with the widest smile, ever withnessed by Gol’Tak, said something very slowly and obviously carefully descriptive. When he finished the armor was being moved to a small room, just near the entrance.
“Bed is there.” – was what returned the orc to reality. Upon looking where he was pointed at he saw a small “bed”, complete with a “blanket” and straw. He guessed the straw was a bonus. – “You are going to need this.” – the goblin handled him a familiar green vial entitled “Potion of Healing”, since this was not a part of the negotiated service it was obvious the cunning “fox” wanted something more from him. Being on the brink of exhaustion and definitely not in the position to refuse, Gol’Tak drank it in one gulp. Familiar warmness spread from his stomach to his limbs and entire body, he felt how it was rejuvenating, the muscles forming, the bones healing and the skin growing. Soon the wound was nothing more than a scar, and even sooner this will all be nothing more than a dream, he thought as he was closing his eyes, ready for the long awaited sleep.
***
Quarreling… shouting… rage… sniveling… bargaining… shouting… apologies… these thoughts got through to Gol’Tak and signaled his brain to awake. Slowly his eyelids began to open, sounds began to make sense to his ears. The world was blurry. A rub on his eyes as he was yawning cleared that right up. It appeared someone was arguing with a goblin… typical – goblin inventions often worked just fine… for goblins, for the other races they tended to be dangerous, flammable, exploding, on fire, unregulated, deadly to the user and squeaky. Goblins found them to be perfectly fine – since that’s their whole ideology. Had it been just that the orc would have dismissed it and went back to sleep, but then he heard the words “orc”, “hide” and “accomplice”. He could not make out the full sentence, but it was enough to arouse his suspicion, he crept closer to hear the conversation. As he peaked from the edge of a wooden crate he saw a blond muscular middle-aged human male with the most well-groomed moustache outside of a dwarf’s beard , Gol’Tak had ever seen. It was hard to tell if he was wearing the moustache or was the moustache wearing him, from his straight posture with a thrown out chest and the look in his brown eyes it was obvious this was a warrior, but one who has never seen blood on the battlefield or ever faced an opponent in a battle to the death. The human was covered in guard armor, all the shining badges suggested he was an officer or captain. Behind him there were another two human males, apart from the different hair color, lack of both an epic moustache and shining badges the orc could not differentiate between the three. Humans all looked like the same flesh whetstones for his axe. The conversation went on, but it was in human, so Gol’Tak understood little.
“Then surrender him immediately!” – said the “captain”
“But, chief Mutra, he is under asylum as long as his stay at our… abode is paid.” – replied the goblin, speaking with him. He seemed ordinary for his race – short, green and sly. Judging by his purple garments and rectangular reading glasses, Gol’Tak decided it must be some kind of an emissary, diplomat or bureaucrat.
“Goblin jurisdiction is meaningless to us, the Alliance allows you to live freely, because you claim neutrality. But clearly this act of sheltering a dangerous war criminal means you are still loyal to the Horde. This wouldn’t sit well with the governor.”
“Allow me to correct you, sir – we are not sheltering anyone, even less a dangerous criminal. We are simply providing accommodations to a well-paid customer. The fact that he is of orcish blood matters little. True you claim he is a war criminal, but do you have any proof?”
“… the word of the city guard should be enough proof for you!”
“Not, quite. For you see, even if the city guard is honorable and rarely makes mistakes a simple “guess” has no value as evidence. But even should you prove his guilt, he is still staying under our neutral roof, therefore granting him asylum until he decides to leave, or until his money run out.”
It was apparent “chief Mutra” did not like being shown he is wrong, his face was starting to acquire a crimson nuance since the start of the goblin’s reply and was already quire red by the end of it.
“I will not have you hinder my investigation! Surrender the orc immediately or we will undertake offensive actions!”
“Should you present us with a written document, declaring the Alliance’s involvement in this matter, and their full support of your actions, signed by all the lords, stamped and sealed with the official seal… we will have no choice but to comply.” – the goblin could not help but grin. This was the last straw for the human.
“That’s it! Burn it! Trash it! Burn it to the ground, boys! Kill all of the little nuisances that get in our way!”
“There is no need for that.” – Gol’Tak stepped out of the shadows, just as chief Mutra was drawing his sword. This sudden appearance, coupled with the orc’s bulk clearly surprised the guards. The chief took a step back, while his adjutants took two. – “Was is your point with me?” – while the goblins knew orcish, almost none of the orcs knew human, and those who did, like Gol’Tak, knew it barely enough to make a point across.
“A-HA! So the foul beast finally shows himself! Now will you come with us quietly or do we have to force you?”
“Force me.” – while this did not surprise anyone, the sensation of doubt and fear was clear on the faces of the chief’s subordinates. This would be easy for Gol’Tak. If he killed the leader, the rest would crumble.
“Very well, then. I will vanquish you alone, monster! I will not even need help from my fellow guardsmen!” – at this moment Mutra was so engulfed in his own dreams of the glory, fame and respect killing this one orc, alone would bring him, that he failed to judge the situation correctly… a mistake he will come to regret. – “Ready your blade!”
The orc readied his axe and took three steps towards his opponent. The human, too excited to wait, charged straight for him. Gol’Tak raised his axe above his head slowly, waiting for the right moment. Mutra saw that and thought since the orc was so big, he was obviously slow, and seized the opportunity to attack his open belly. As he reached the range of his axe, the human quickly jumped left to dodge the strike the orc was obviously readying and proceeded to stab him.
It would all have worked out perfectly, had he not been completely blinded by his ego. The orc purposely acted as if he was slow to act, while in truth orcs train to be big AND fast in battle. That almost cost Mutra his arm, luckily he was able to deflect the attack just barely with his sword. Now he swung his sword above his head to the orc’s right shoulder – it was a hit… a deliberate one. Gol’Tak used this chance to make a reverse-swing with his axe. With his sword jabbed the human had neither the means nor the time to react and that cost him an arm. A right one, to be precise.
It took a couple of seconds for the pain to start. Seconds for which Gol’Tak permitted the human to live. His adjutants watched in horror as he was rolling on the ground shrieking sounds of unimaginable agony while holding his bleeding stump. One of them actually went all pale and vomited.
An orcish warrior fights with pride and honor. After such a clear victory it would be honorable to rid his enemy of the coming pain. A clean swing, a bloody axe and a rolling head later Gol’Tak was fixing his eyes on the other two. And they knew it. Even the goblin, who had never taken part in a physical conflict understood that by the way they were running for their lives a second later. It would hurt his pride if he let them escape, not to mention it would be foolish to let them inform a whole city there was an orc nearby.
They had never waged war, never fought anyone on their level or anyone with guts for that matter. And until now they never knew what the proverb “Running from the Devil” actually felt like. As if that’s not enough now they were beginning to understand what “Running from the Devil and feeling your pants fill with urine as you see him catching up with you” felt like too. Each one of the ex-subordinates was hoping the other would slow him down considerably. While you run for your life there isn’t that much to occupy your thoughts.
“At least I got to run a bit.” – was going through Gol’Tak’s mind at this point. That and a curse about him being out of shape. It wasn’t more than 200 meters sprint with a battle axe in his arm and he was starting to pant and feel pain in his chest. For a second he considered letting them go. But that was quickly dismissed, for a warrior never quits in the face of such a minor inconvenience.
For him giving up now would be as unnatural as flying. He lived for battle, for that feeling of superiority and satisfaction when the blood of your enemy is spraying all over your body. Nothing else, neither commanding other orcs, neither making love to a woman, neither overwhelming your opponent with tactics and intelligence brought such pleasure. It is simple – orcs were made to do battle! To fight, kill, die and fight again. Fish did not stop swimming and birds did not stop flying, warriors did not give up. Even as he steadily reminded himself that he felt he did it not because he did not know it… but rather because the discomfort was growing stronger and his body was more and more ready to give up. The humans were gaining distance but that was of little relevance now, as his chest was pierced by the sharpest weapon ever known – pain. He felt his legs slow down, his arms relax motionlessly like dead twigs and as the world faded to black he felt, rather than heard, the thumping sound of his axe against the soil… or was it his body?
***
Someone was chanting. Gol’Tak opened his eyes. There was a goblin standing beside him weaving magic, he was dressed in white clothing - a coat and a small hat, all with a red cross on them. The inscription on them jogged some memories – it read “Resuscitation team” on several languages. He suddenly gasped for air, it was as if his lungs have been empty for hours and just now needed to fill the vacuum with air. The world slowly stopped spinning, Gol’Tak carefully rose from the ground and asked what had happened.
“How old are you, ogre?” – asked the goblin-medic
“I am no ogre, I am an orc, can’t you see?!”
“Yes, yes, formalities, how OLD are you?”
“Late seventy-six.”
“And have you experienced similar pain before?” – the orc shook his head with hesitation – “I have good news and bad news. I’ll start with the bad…” – the goblin did not wait for any reaction from Gol’Tak – “…you have heart-disease, your heart is too old for you to keep going at such a pace. But the good news is that we have an excellent heart-retiring plan - only today 35% discount!”
Gol’Tak didn’t listen, his ears just stopped hearing, his eyes stopped seeing, his whole body stopped feeling. It wouldn’t have been so terrible if deep inside he didn’t know it to be true…
He tried to fight it, told himself the goblin was wrong, told himself he could fight with a sick heart, but all was for nothing. He knew better. Should he allow his pride to cloud his judgment, next time he may never wake up.
After what seemed like an eternity he came to his senses and decided to do something about it. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and asked:
“What can be done for me?”
“Well, as I was just explaining our “Golden Heart” plan will…”
“I need medicine. Magic. Shamanism. SOMETHING to keep me fighting.”
At first the goblin stood speechless for a second or two. Then said slowly: “You CAN NOT fight and live! You choose – stress yourself again and die, or live out the rest of your life in peace… ALIVE!”
“Only thing we can offer you is medicine. It will make the pain stop, but nothing more. It won’t heal your heart.” – intervened Gei Vulshebnik
Gol’Tak wished he needed few seconds to ponder, but he already knew the answer.
“How much does it cost?”
“Three thousand gold pieces”
“THREE THOU…” – the orc’s massive jaw almost unhinged itself in an effort to drop to the ground from astonishment. It was obvious the medicine did not cost so much, the goblins were, of course, merely taking advantage. Three thousand gold pieces was the price of a well trained war horse, complete with armour and equipment. Three thousand gold pieces was the combined worth of several peasant households. Three thousand gold pieces…
“…would be the price of your fine axe.” – said Gei Vulshebnik with a clear grin of excitement on his face.
Gol’Tak’s face was stone-serious, there were only slight expressions of hate - his lightly tightened eyelids, the faintest suggestion of a frown. He tried hard to keep these emotions in check since his current situation was especially bad - not only was he cornered by the goblins with an extreme price for a medicine he needed to survive, he was also unable to plain slaughter them all due to the same need for the medication. From all angles it seemed there was only one option and he didn’t like it one bit.
His axe… his weapon… his spirit. It has become an extension of his own body, why he would sooner give up one of his own arms than the axe… but he doubted the goblins had any need for an extra arm. During these past few hours… days… it seemed his determination has been questioned more than during his entire service with the Horde. Was it destiny? Was it divine intervention? Had the spirits decided it was time for atonement? Punishment?
…or was it simply a joke from Reality.
He couldn’t do it. His mind was telling him “yes” but every fiber of his body was yelling “NO!”. Yet… what is the alternative? One final battle and then… death? Many would question the advantages of a short, yet passionate life compared to a long and dull one. Warriors lived the former kind. Death was so possible even the greenest recruits get used to stare it in the eyes every other week. “To accept death, but not seek it.” – one of the first lessons learned during training. Then why was he clinging so hard to life? Was is because dying on the battlefield was honorable? Quicker? Less painful? He did not know. All he knew was that there was a medicine and there was a way to obtain it. Simple as that. As he was nearing the end of his thoughts Gei Vulshebnik was already handling the transportation of the axe.
Some formal words were exchanged. A small flask given. A head drooped. An axe and dignity lost and a journey begun.
What would he do now, Gol’Tak wondered. He was already going nowhere for nothing and no one. At the very least he had to begin a new life of peace and solitude… he had heard that there are some manner of “orc preservation camps”. They sounded nice and quiet.
He headed in search of one to call his home.
I know I missed the deadline and the only thing to signify my participation was my initial draft, but I was astounded what huge ratings it got! It was, like... 1000 words of generic stupid lame story with no nothing and it got a huge ton of points! I was even put at the #5 spot. When I saw the reviews I was, like... "God what 
?!" I wouldn't have given myself 2 points for that draft 
?!" I wouldn't have given myself 2 points for that draft 
