Majutsu-shi no Chikara Ch. 01

Now, with five Elders gathered around the bell, and Elder Matta holding the mallet, the villagers of Southwold grew quiet and respectful. The oldest men, some grandfathers or fathers of men already grown, mixed with the oldest women, arranged opposite the Elders of the assembly. The younger men and women, most the eldest of the childless were arranged in the middle -- commanded by their surrounds to listen all around, lest they hear nothing.

As was custom, the Elders would begin the meeting by addressing the young -- who in turn would address their parents, and who in turn would speak back to the Elders. It was in this way that Southwold kept its peace -- for who would say they were not heard that were given chance to speak?

"Who speaks before the Elders?" Bhosti grated, scratching idly at her breast as she stared over the heads of the men and women of Southwold gathered in the plaza that evening. The air was hot and still, dry... no clouds, yet.

"Damon speaks." Damon lifted his eyes to meet Bhosti's. She sighed heavily, seeming very tired. Damon tread the childless ground of youth, but carried himself with the manner of a man expecting his first grandchildren.

"The Elders of the Village will hear you, Damon." Elder Shaum, regarded asthe eldest of the Elders (save Matta), rasped and licked his shriveled lips. "What say you, this night?"

"I say, my Elders, that Elder Matta should determine his own time to take his leave." Damon made a sweeping gesture in the vague direction of Renks Cairn, launching into the customary praises. "The Wizards of Renks Cairn do not know Southwold and do not love us as Elder Matta loves us. He has shed his blood for us for years beyond counting, and our love for him is boundless."

"Still your tongue waggling." Matta tapped the small wooden mallet against the simple iron bell that served as the centerpiece of Southwold. "We all know they are coming for me... too old... too frail..."

"Elder Matta..." Damon lifted his hands toward the Wizard in effort to soothe the ancient, the bell's toll rising beneath his voice.

"Pah!" Matta coughed, then spit a thin bit of phlegm into the dust. "Their pretty words do not hide their meaning. You all heard!"

Matta cast his gaze upon the assemblage, none daring to speak against him -- though he could see the doubts behind their eyes. Damon, for all his youthful vigor, was perhaps the oldest among the children in his mind. He saw things simply and clearly...oh, to be so young again. The bell's note seemed to lend strength to Matta.

"They mean to unseat me, and take apprenticeship from me." Matta scowled, raising his gnarled hands in defiance. "Me! Who has turned marauders and giants away from Southwold for two lifetimes! Who has seen the birthing and dying of Southwold's families since even I have forgotten when! Who calls the rains in time of drought..."

"But the rains have not come." Someone behind Damon grumbled, followed by murmured agreements nearby. Damon could guess who had spoken, but it would be doubly rude to interject, now.

"The rainswill come." Matta shouted, his voice cracking with age and weariness. "Eighty years alone, I have called the rains over Southwold... always, I have called the rains."

A fit of coughing stole his breath, dragging him to his knees. A young man, no more than twelve or thirteen winters stepped forward to steady him.

"Please, Elder." No more than a boy, he pleaded. "Please, be soothed."

Matta's entire body shook violently with each wet cough, his face purple beneath his pale hood and shawl. He jerked his head to the side, meaning to dismiss the young man. Then, the coughing stopped, and Matta seemed to shiver with his rage.

After long, tense moments -- all eyes transfixed by the ancient wizard's fit of pique -- Damon could guess many of them were expecting Matta to drop stone dead at that instant. Matta defied such expectation after what felt a long minute, staggering to his feet and leaning heavily on the young man -- Damon recognized him as Ginga's eldest brother (still many winters younger than her, for Ginga had two younger sisters yet older than this boy), Hollin.

Thank you, Hollin. Damon nodded as the lad looked away from Matta only the barest moment, continuing to steady the ancient dutifully.

"Good boy, Hollin." Matta patted Hollin's shoulder, sagging heavily within his own skin even as he directed his attention to the assembly. "I willnot be riddanced so easily. Iwill call the rains..."

A sudden hush struck the village for a heartbeat -- all eyes locked on Matta as he seemed to lose his place for a moment... something far more terrible pressed in around them. Goats bleated restlessly in the corrals, and the hot night air felt thick with malice.

"ORKS!" a scream echoed in the distance, and several shrieks, whistles, and animal cries rose in all directions. Chaos. Flashes of light. Screaming.

Orks were not to be trifled-with at any time, least of all at night. The feral among them could see better in the dark than even the sharp-eyed owl or bat, and could scent-out prey better still. Now, Southwold was beset by what seemed an army of the murderous creatures -- though it was in truth perhaps no more than a dozen.

Amid the wails and chaos, several men and women took charge; rallying teams within the village to counter violence with greater violence. Spears and rakes were brought to bear, shovels and clubs or the odd torch lashing out in the closer quarters. The most desperate used their belt-knives, often reserved for eating.

Matta stood, forgotten, his eyes clouding in confusion. Then, as though casting his many years off with his shawl, he bared his wizened head. His tattoos, blurry black splotches on his wrinkled, shriveled scalp, flashed at their edges with flame-like light. The outlines vanished, but left in the mind's-eye the terrible images conjured forth in Matta's fury.

Speaking a string of complex, incomprehensible syllables, Matta's gnarled, bony fingers plucked the air like harp-strings... or bow-strings.

Darts of flame pierced the air before Matta, stabbing into being from somewhereelse, streaking into the black of night to find ork flesh and set it ablaze. The villagers were heartened, and cries of triumph echoed -- but it was not the end of the fray. Already, three orks had grouped into a crude phalanx and were hewing into the defenders -- driving a score or more fleeing before them. A hunting horn sounded, striking fear into every human heart... a war party was upon them. Even a child of ten winters knew the only mercy a war party offered was under the blade. What had been a moment of triumph turned to despair. What had been cheering turned to wailing.

Above the din, a keening whistle pierced the air -- somewhere akin to the shrillest winter wind and the shriek of the fiercest raptor held interminable in the night. It caused even the war party to hesitate. Only for a moment, before the orks steeled themselves and renewed their attack.

With a flash of light and the clap of thunder, the rider, Billsby, appeared ahorse in their midst like a statue. He had gone at dusk, taking his leave to camp where he pleased on the outermost reaches of Southwold on the road back to Renks Cairn... now, he was returned, wrathful and godlike on his steed, his blade aloft and the small fae-flute to his lips.

No sooner had the mercenary appeared in a crack of thunder than the lightning followed him from whence he came, bringing another deafening shock of thunder and blinding all too slow or foolish to look away. Orks were knocked flat, those in Billsby's direct wake were blasted apart in a shower of charred flesh and gore. So great was the destruction that several homes caught fire, and one was flattened completely.

Damon could barely see; could hear nothing over the screaming thunder in his ears. The orks that had pressed him had crumpled to the ground with him, but he could yet move. They were still as death. The war party halted its attack, and all became still for another shaking breath. Billsby, a mad gleam in his eyes, was smiling as he spurred his horse into the spear-points of the war party's leading phalanx.

"Fuck you all, whore-son mongrels! And fuck those Wizards in their damn Tower for sending me out here." His smile held no joy, no glee. His was the fanged grin of a predator. "To me, you shivering cowards! To me, and fight -- if you have blood left in you."

The mare leapt forward at the touch of his spurs, heedless of the flames, blood, and steel all around. Her hooves trampled any before her, while Billsby's blade arced out and clove ork heads from shoulders. Damon struggled to his feet and balanced his spear, bracing himself for a charging ork that disappeared before his eyes beneath the mare's pounding hooves.

"Damon!" Billsby cried out, reining his horse left and right, his blade never still. "Damon, damn you! Get them to safety! I shall follow!"

Another horn, and another. The night became a single, deafening horn-blast from all directions, and Damon shouted to his friends... his family. He didn't know if they could hear, but they saw his face... they saw his hands and body. Whether they understood, they heeded his movement and gathered before him. Their weapons turned outward, as one, and they cut their way toward the darkness of the Willow Wood... the nearest place of retreat that offered as much salvation as uncertainty -- if only because it was not the open target of Southwold in the dusty plains. Damon swore he could hear a drum pounding in the darkness, but did not know if the sound was in his ears or his skull -- such was the shock of Billsby's arrival.

He spared a glance over his shoulder. True to his word, and truer still to the plated armor he wore, Billsby wheeled his mare with deadly skill. The blade in his hand, either from his own practice or some magical endowment, fairly sang in the air as it struck each foe -- seeming to never miss a lethal blow. Elder Matta was wreathed in a circle of arcane flames, looking half his age and full of deadly power; darts of fire scattering in all directions to find orks Damon could not see.

Those Damon was shepherding toward safety stopped, buckling backward as they ran afoul of yet more orks. Damon sprang to the fore, his spear dragging an ork to the ground as he shouted defiantly at them. The scrum buckled and twisted, pulling left and right as staves, spears, blades, and claws sought flesh in the darkness. As many screams pierced the night, more were pain and dying than rage or blood-lust.

Another horse slammed into Damon, riderless and black, wielding a club the length of his leg. Horse? Nay, an ork, head and shoulders above him, clouted him solidly and the world vanished into blackness.

Billsby saw the troll, but could not get to it before it began trampling and smashing the villagers. His mare, not half so mad to tangle with a troll, bolted from beneath him to take her chances with the rest of the war party. Billsby would not be cowed. He stepped from the saddle and blew the final note of the fae-flute... shattering the metal flute and the darkness with another bolt of lightning.

"Come, troll!" Billsby screamed, the lightning gathering around him and catapulting him at the fell beast. "Let us see what makes you!"

The explosion that followed detonated yards beyond the troll, yards beyond the ring of fighting villagers and orks, into the darkness. Then, as before, the lightning chased Billsby from where he'd leapt from his mare -- through the troll and dozens of orks. Dolls and straw, the orks were scattered in blazing pieces. The troll's body flew apart in a cloud of burning gore in all directions.

It might only just be enough, Billsby frowned, limbering his shield from his back.

Amid the spattering gore of raining troll, water began to trickle from the sky. Then heavy drops... then a deluge... hailstones... heartbeats had passed from Billsby's crazed ride through a troll, and suddenly he was in the middle of the fiercest hailstorm he'd ever witnessed. Lightning lanced from the sky -- true lightning, not the paltry magic he'd called from the fae-flute. This was the raging might of the gods themselves, blasting with a surgical precision into the war party.

"By the Powers." Billsby's jaw slackened, witnessing Matta in his full fury. Now, he knew why the Tower had sent him... and knew it would mean nothing... less than nothing... to such a mad sorceror.

Naked, screaming unintelligible words with a throat no mortal could muster, above the crashing thunder and hailstones, Matta's voice ripped the sky open -- his weathered hands were swollen with energy... he was magic incarnate, the storm of the heavens, the seed and the stone, the proliferation... Mattawas. His battle-song broke the war party's spirit, and his magic broke their flesh. So glutted of his energies, Matta was more than a man, more than a thing... he became aforce. His eyes burned with the heat of daylight, his mouth spewed fire and the gale of a hurricane. Lightning streaked from the cloudless sky, tracing painful lines in the darkness wherever his fingers bade them go... Matta,the Elemental, the Tower had called him. How poorly they had captured his devastating capacity.

Billsby fled toward the Willow Wood, hoping his horse would be spared the Wizard's wrath. He didn't care anymore if Southwold survived, nor any in it. When a Wizard went mad, there were no friends or safety while the Wizard lived. Billsby knew better. Still, Billsby was not a woodsman... and he did not have the night-eyes of orks. In the darkness, he was as much their prey as anyone else. Even so -- he made them buy his capture dearly.

Matta's battle-song, full-throated, chased the surviving orks like cowering dogs from Southwold, in rains of ice and lightning, with spouts of flame at their heels.

By morning, the grave-like silence in the village was Matta's only companion to greet the dawn. The shriveled ancient huddled under his shawl, quaking with quiet sobs at the wreckage around him.

...

Damon awoke to fingers prodding his ribs, which stabbed white pain into his skull and threatened to swallow him in darkness again. He rolled onto his left side, which hurt less and freed him to vomit. Emptying his stomach did nothing for the pain, but his stomach quieted.

"That'll have to do." an unfamiliar whisper stole into his ears as a rough hand grabbed his naked shoulder. "Can you hear me?"

Damon groaned, trying to answer, trying to nod his head. His stomach lurched and he vomited bile.

"Right, be still, then." the hand patted his shoulder coarsely. "No use fighting right now, anyway."

"Bil...by?" Damon wheezed. The pain in his ribs had lessened, slightly.

"shhh." The hand retreated, but he could tell the other man was close. Something foul assaulted his nostrils when he tried to breathe. He gagged again.

"That's ork-stink." Billsby gruffed. "Could die from that, if they don't skin us, first."

Damon shivered and tried to open his eyes. One eye didn't seem to work... perhaps blinded when the horse... no, giant ork, had hit him.

"Lucky that troll din't kill ya." Billsby scratched idly at his bare ass, observing the dark prison tent with a scowl. "Well, maybelucky in't the word."

Damon realized his pain was lessening. His "blind" eye offered a cloudy report similar to his good eye. It seemed as if Billsby had healed him... somehow.

"You... healed...?" Damon found breathing easy enough, but talking hurt his head terribly.

"You're a fuckin' mess, boy." The mercenary snorted. "Quit talking, half your face is broken. Let the magic do its job and bequiet."

"You, quiet." a thick, ork voice barked from a few yards away. Heavy footfalls approached, thick boots on hard ground.

"Swallow a pike, troll-shite." Billsby stood, squaring his shoulders to draw attention away from the younger man he'd healed. "An' while you're at it, squat on a halberd ye half-wi-"

A meaty thud punctuated Billsby's insult, cutting it short and staggering him.

"Quiet, meat." the ork snarled, so close the short tusks of his mouth touched Billsby's cheek. "I eat tongue."

Billsby stared death at the ork but was silent, his eyes locked with the savage.

They stared, each daring the other to blink. At last, the ork grunted -- spraying spittle or snot on Billsby's face.

"Quiet, meat." the ork straightened, towering a head and shoulders above the otherwise large human. "Maybe live."

The ork chuckled at its joke as it walked away, content it had somehow made its point.

"Well, well." Billsby squatted back down by Damon, his voice lower than before... venomous.

"Hnnn?" Damon inquired, the blurring of his eye much improved and the pain in his body now tolerable rather than crippling.

"They need breeders." Billsby murmured, then spat blood toward the ork -- who sneered back with satisfaction before resolutely making an effort to "ignore" the human prisoners. "That's a thin strand of hope."

"What?" Damon was surprised and proud that he'd formed an entire word, despite the nauseating effort it took.

"That's a mule." Billsby nodded toward the guard, then spat more loudly and made a show of coughing noisily before whispering behind his hand. "They're short on breeding stock."

Cold panic gripped Damon's chest, dwarfing the pain, as every nightmare he'd ever heard about orks swelled into his mind. Tales of ork raiders taking women and men in the night, slaughtering most but forcing the rest to be used to breed more orks within a tribe. Often, orks led such violent, savage lives that their war bands became so inbred that they could not reproduce anymore... becoming "mules". Damon thought of how hideous orks looked and considered death a kinder fate to siring anymore such beasts -- however it might prolong his life in the short-term.

Another moan, this one in the shadows Damon's eyes couldn't pierce, drew his attention to other survivors. Five more in all... a sixth had already succumbed to his wounds. All men of Southwold... well, all except Billsby.

"They'll take me, first... might give us a chance to make a break for it." Billsby coughed again and made a show of nursing his jaw to hide his face from their guard. "If I can get to my sword, I could probably take a female hostage. That usually gets an exchange."

"Hostage?" Damon hissed, the weight of Billsby's plan forming in his mind.

"Aye. If they've only a few, it's a mint." Billsby smiled behind his hand, then looked into the shadows hiding Damon's fellows. "Might be enough to save more'n one or two of ya."

The guard barked something in the guttural ork-speak... something like belching, growling, and snorting at the same time -- but each sound was more feral than the last.

"Well, the mule just got wise." Billsby sighed, not bothering to mask what he was saying, anymore. "They'll be taking us two at a time. Fuck 'em."

There was a malicious twinkle in Billsby's eyes as he glanced to Damon.

"Nice knowin' ya, Damon." Billsby chuckled. "You find my sword, cut down everything don't have teats."

The guard approached and grabbed Billsby's neck with one hand -- that's when Damon noticed the faint glint of an edge disappearing in Billsby's palm.

"I eat..." the ork started, lifting Billsby bodily with one arm like a small sack of grain. A flash of movement and the ork dropped him, staggering backward and clutching it's neck. Blood spewed in pulsing geysers from a puncture that went through the ork's windpipe and into the side of its throat, blood whistling outward in a fine spray.

Billsby landed neatly on his feet and laughed.

"Aye, whore-son, I heard... tongues, was it?" He taunted as the ork gasped blood and tried to clamp its hands over the wounds. It appeared to be quickly fading. "Tongue my arse, you mule shite."