Chapter Fifty-Eight: Realisation

Chapter Fifty-Eight: Realisation

Tom and Val were moving at pace, drawing every bit of speed from themselves that they could. The encounter with the orcs had been sobering. It lit a fire in them. Although it was successful, every orc slaughtered quickly and efficiently, it had been concerning.This chapter is updated by nov(e)(l)biin.com

There were more of them, for starters, than seemed to be the standard for orc scouting parties. They were better equipped. They were much further out than the scouts they had followed back from their mission to the orc camp.

And most concerningly of all: these ones had an Idealist with them.

It was only thanks to Toms Ideal of Silence that it didnt become a major issue. Hush had allowed them to kill it before it managed to use any skills to even the odds.

They had been lucky. With advance warning from Sere to prepare themselves, and the orcish Idealist nullified, they had laid an extremely successful ambush. But Tom could now see all too well how other encounters might have gone differently, how the orcs had managed to capture so many Idealists.

They moved incredibly fast through the woods. Their bestial natures suited them well in that regard. Any Idealist without a sensory skill, or a familiar, or possibly an item, to warn them of approaching orcs, would find themselves taken completely by surprise.

Most of the prisoners wouldnt have been expecting to see orcs at all, let alone orcs using skills. It was no wonder they had subdued so many.

These were the thoughts that occupied him as they ran. Tom felt like he was being drawn on a string. They needed to reach the forge. If the orcs were this far out, they could have easily reached it.

If the Lords followers hadnt found Scriber and Cub first.

They ran for days, stopping only to catch a handful of hours sleep every night. It was not as much of an issue, after a body tempering or two. They could handle this pace for weeks.

They fell into a steady rhythm. Wake, run, stop, eat, run, run, sleep. Another week. Still another to go until they reached the forge.

It was then that they ran into more orcs.

It was midmorning, and they were moving through a relatively clear patch of forest. The trees were thinner, newer. There was almost no deadfall. The ground was flat. They were making good time. Then a frantic sending came from Sere.

Orcs! Orcs! Bad! Orcs! Bad Bad!

The accompanying images she sent sent his stomach plummeting.

The group was even bigger than last time, perhaps twenty strong. Tom couldnt get a solid count of them. They were running, loping, as they usually did, but a low black mist clung to the ground around them. It was unnatural. Every minute or so, a few of the rearmost orcs would seem to plunge into the mist, as if theyd run headfirst from stable ground into deep water, and then would reappear at the leading edge of the mist, in front of all their fellows, in a plume of black fog.

They had an Idealist with them, obviously. One with skills to help them all move faster. They were moving directly towards them. They had minutes.

Val! Orcs! Tom half-whispered, half-shouted at her.

She stopped, turning wildly. Where? How many? How long?

North east! Twenty! Minutes away! They have another Idealist!

Val let out a string of expletives. Tom was too worried to really register them. Smitten flowed into the woods to their left, away from the approaching orcs, obviously at some mental command from Val. It made sense. The dog, useful as she was, was not built for combat.

She grabbed Scorn by his scruff, a most undignified action, and tossed him high in the air. He twisted with feline grace, snagging a branch as he sailed past it and pulling himself onto it. He gave a small shake of his fur to settle it before turning towards the north east.

Val strung her bow and poked a handful of arrows into the earth. Tom quickly pulled a couple of potions out of his inventory and downed them. It was dangerous, mixing poisons. Where individually, they might trigger Sweet Suffering, mixed together they might react with each other, and the resulting concoction might not. He didnt have the time for prudence, though.

He breathed a sigh of relief as his wisp pulsed with Sweet Sufferings activation. Strength and power flooded his limbs. His vision sharpened. He hitched up the left leg of his pants and summoned Sesame. He had subbed the bear while they were running.

Sere was still tracking the approaching pack. They had less than a minute now. Tom pulled a few throwing knives out of the storage ring he had found on Honeyfield. They were not his usual weapon, but he had trained with them. He hoped he could injure one or two orcs.

The orcs attacked at once. Tom turned and struck, stepped, blocked, stabbed and twirled. Orcs fell. More replaced them. He kept fighting.

Orcs crowded in on them, sensing victory near at hand. Tom kept them at bay by a hairs breadth. He fell into that elusive place where time did not matter. Where nothing mattered. Nothing but the fight.

The orcs were feral, but like wolves, they worked together instinctively. Whenever he gave one his attention, another would attack. He began to accumulate wounds. Stinging cuts from claws, bruises from clubs, from strikes with crude axes that couldnt break his mail. One of his ribs was broken. His left shoulder wasnt quite working properly. He slipped deeper into the trance.

He split his attention between his own eyes and Seres. It was possibly the only reason he survived those last few minutes.

His movements changed. He had spent months fighting alongside Sesame, and the two of them were a seamless unit. It was evidenced in their fight now, as they guarded each others back, trading off threats and rotating to give each other space.

He had been unused to Sere. He had relegated the birds to the role of a scout in his mind. He was ecstatic to have a familiar even as useful as that, being honest. But now, he saw her true worth.

He trusted her, as a scout, for the information, the advance warnings, that she provided, but he had not thought her useful in combat.

He was wrong.

At first, he had been overwhelmed by the information she sent him. Then he had gotten used to it. As he moved into the very heart of the battle-trance, it became truly seamless.

It was like having eyes in the back of his head. Whenever an orc worried his flank, trying to attack from his blindspot as he moved to kill another, he knew.

His spear was a whirlwind. The combination of its length, its reach, its versatility, combined with Seres information, was immaculate. He could block one orc and thrust at one in the same movement. Foul ones movements and stymie yet another too.

Then Sere began to help more directly. Several bodies stayed in the trees above to provide coverage, watching the battle, feeding him information. The rest entered the fray.

Even with a birds eye view of his own fight, even with a spear, and Sesame at his back, Tom could still only be in so many places at once. Sere began to make up the difference. Where an orc found an opening, she would swoop into its face, chirping and pecking, the sounds comically small and sweet compared to the braying, barking orcs.

The little sounds only did trivial damage. Her pecks only did trivial damage. It was why he had so easily seen her as a scout, and only a scout. But trivial damage was still a lot, when applied directly to an eye, or an ear.

The orcs, surging forward to take advantage of an opening, found themselves flinching, unable to see, suddenly deafened. Green flashes marked more attacks from Scorn. Whisper tags began to explode periodically, blasting small chunks out of orcish limbs, spraying blood into the morning air.

The wounds stopped accumulating. The pressure lessened. The tide turned.

Tom stood, drenched in blood. It dripped from him, ran in a rivulet from his speartip. Sesame huffed from behind him. Tom could tell the bear was heavily injured, but in no danger of death.

Dead orcs were arrayed all around them. A single, injured orc fled away through the woods. A tiny pink line connected it to him. It snapped, and the orc crashed to the ground. Tom cast Wild Eagle Strike on it. It lay still, and did not get back up.

Tom dropped to his knees beside Val. She was unconscious still, her breathing light. He checked the wound on her shoulder, and confirmed that it was only barely more than a scratch.

Poison, then, he thought. This must be how they capture Idealists.

It was one mystery ticked off the growing list.

Tom was unsure what to do. Val would hopefully wake at some point, but he had no idea how long that would take. He couldnt sit still, not with the amount of orcs about. If he ran across another pack now, they would both be captured. Sesame was too injured to carry her on a travois though. Despair welled in him.

He gazed absently around at the bodies of the orcs, perhaps hoping some inspiration would strike him. He noted their weapons, several of crudely forged iron, just like the last lot. Many had badly cured hides covering most of their vitals too. It was strange. The size of the packs They were so far out from their camp

Ice cold realisation flooded him. These werent scouting parties. They were raiding parties.

The army was moving. The invasion had begun.