Chapter 23 Othic
OTHIC
"We run."
The words are a snarl, a desperate command that rips from my throat.
I do not wait for her to nod. I grab Aurora's arm, my grip bruising, and haul her from the hollow.
We plunge into the black forest, abandoning our packs, taking only our blades.
This is not a stalk; this is a flight. The ground is a treacherous, sucking mire, and I drag her over gnarled roots and through grasping thorns.
She stumbles, her breath a raw, panicked gasp, but I do not slow.
I cannot. The rank, musky smell is no longer a distant threat; it is behind us, a thick, oily presence that coats the air, a promise of violence.
It is not trying to be quiet. I hear it. A heavy THUD. CRASH. A tree splinters to our left, the sound of its destruction a clear display of contempt. It is not hunting us. It is playing with us. It is strong. It is fast. And it is close.
My muscles are whole, my body healed, but this... this is a primal fear I have not felt since I was a child. This is a story my clan elders told to frighten us, a beast of nightmare and shadow, and it is real.
Aurora cries out as she trips, her ankle twisting on a wet stone.
I yank her to her feet without stopping, my frustration a hot, bitter taste in my mouth.
The frustration is not at her; it is at this.
At being hunted. She is human. She is small.
She is slowing me down, and I will not let this thing have her.
I hear the sound of rushing water, a roar that cuts through the oppressive silence of the forest. Hope. A chance. It might mask our scent. I burst through a thicket of thorns, the branches tearing at my leathers, and stop dead, pulling Aurora hard against my chest.
It is not a wide river. It is a sight of pure, tactical despair. A deep, narrow, rocky ravine, perhaps thirty feet across, with a fast-moving stream at the bottom. The only way forward is through it. This is not safety. This is a bottleneck. A perfect kill-zone.
A tree splinters behind us, so close I feel the vibration through the mud. The beast is coming, and it is not subtle. We have no choice.
"Move!" I roar, shoving her ahead of me down the slick, muddy bank. "Do not stop. Do not look back."
We plunge into the ravine. The path is a treacherous, narrow ledge slick with green moss and the cold, stinging spray from the stream.
The rocks are sharp, the footing unstable.
Every step is a risk, a potential fall into the churning water below.
The air is cold, heavy with the smell of ozone and wet stone, but I can still smell the beast's musk, thick and overpowering.
I am halfway through, my arm locked around Aurora's waist, pulling her over a small rockslide, when I hear it.
CRASH!
It is not from behind us. It is from above.
I look up. On the ridge of the ravine, silhouetted against the pale, sickly sky, the massive, hairy shape is running parallel to us. It is keeping pace. It is not even breathing hard.
It knows this land. It was not chasing us into the ravine to catch us. It was herding us.
My blood runs cold. I shove Aurora forward. "Faster!"
The ravine path widens, opening up into a circular, dead-end clearing. A sheer, wet cliff face rockets up into the sky, the waterfall a curtain of white, angry water, its roar so loud it shakes the rocks under my feet. The only way out is the narrow ravine path we just came through.
We are trapped. Krell's cliff, all over again.
I turn, my heart seizing, looking back the way we came. Aurora sees it, too, her face a mask of pale, breathless terror. "Othic..."
I grab her arm, my fingers biting into her flesh, and shove her toward a small, dark alcove hidden behind the curtain of the waterfall's spray.
"Stay. Here."
I turn, my human sword hissing as I draw it. It feels small and worthless in my grip. A massive, hairy shape blocks the sunlight from the ravine entrance. It is here. It is standing at the bottleneck, its head tilted, watching us. It was not chasing. It was waiting.
I stand between the alcove and the monster. The smell of it is overwhelming in this enclosed space, a thick reek of filth, wet fur, and rotten meat that coats my tongue and makes me want to gag.
The sight of it is worse. It is a nine-foot-tall nightmare of matted, filth-caked hair and knotted, inhuman muscle. It is humanoid, but wrong, its arms too long, its back hunched. It holds a massive club made from a young tree trunk, the end spiked with sharp, black rocks.
This is not a beast. This is a Wudwose. The old clan-stories, the tales to frighten orc children around the fire, are real. I thought they were just stories to scare us. They steal women. They eat the men.
The Wudwose sees me. It roars, a challenge that echoes off the stone walls, louder than the waterfall. It is a sound of absolute ownership, of a predator that knows it has won.
But then... it looks past me.
Its small, red, intelligent eyes find Aurora's alcove. It sees her, a small, trembling shape in the shadows. It grins, a terrible splitting of its face that reveals yellow, broken fangs.
It takes a step toward her.
The fated mate bond, the primal core of my soul, explodes in a white-hot flash. No.
This thing thinks it can look at her. It thinks it can take her. This is not Krell. This is not Privis. This is a thing, and it thinks she is meat.
Not this time.
She is MINE.
I roar, a sound that tears from my throat, a sound of pure possession, a sound that shakes the water from the stones. I charge, placing myself directly between the beast and my mate.
"COME TO ME, FILTH!"
The sound of the club whistling through the air is the only warning I get.
It is impossibly fast for a weapon that large.
I throw myself to the side, my boots slipping on the wet stone.
The impact of the club on the ground where I just stood shakes the cliff face.
Shards of rock fly like shrapnel, stinging my face.
It is strong. Stronger than me. And that hide...
I have to be faster. I cannot parry that club; it would shatter my arm and this pathetic human sword. I charge, ducking under the massive, slow backswing. I lunge, driving the sword with all my weight at its chest.
The blade scrapes off the matted, filth-caked fur as if I had struck a wall. The hide is like boiled leather, thick and hard. This blade is useless.
The beast grunts, annoyed. It does not even use the club. It backhands me.
The blow catches my left shoulder—the one that still bears the puckered scar from Krell's bolt.
An agonizing spike of familiar pain explodes through my body.
The scar tissue tears. I crash against the wet rock wall, my vision flashing white with pain, but my arm is not numb.
It burns, a deep, tearing fire, but it is not useless.
It is the arm I use as a shield, and I keep it high.
I hit the ground, the taste of my own blood flooding my mouth from where I bit my tongue. The sound of the beast's low, wet laughter echoes over the din of the waterfall. It is toying with me. It knows I am guarding her. It knows this sword is a joke.
I cannot beat it with force. I cannot cut its hide. But it has eyes. It has knees.
I pull myself to my feet, my left arm burning but functional. I grab a large, sharp-edged stone from the waterfall's edge. I roar, a false challenge, and charge, holding the sword high as if to attack its chest again. It raises its club, bored, ready to smash me.
At the last second, I drop, sliding on the slick rock, and drive the sharp stone with all my weight into its left knee.
A high-pitched, wet shriek of pure pain. The sound of bone and cartilage crunching.
Got it!
The Wudwose howls, its leg buckling. It drops its club with a clatter, both hands flying to its ruined knee. It is open. It is vulnerable.
I lunge, the human sword ready in my good hand, aiming for its throat, for its eyes—
THWACK.
The beast, even in agony, is fast. Its massive, free hand swings in a wide, desperate arc, catching me across the chest. It is not a punch; it is a slap, but it feels like being hit by a log.
I am thrown backward, my head smashing against the cliff face.
My vision swims, black spots dancing in front of my eyes.
I slide down the wall, my sword clattering from my numb hand.
I am dazed, the world a ringing, gray blur. Then I hear the sound of Aurora screaming.
It is not a scream of fear. It is a raw, guttural shriek of pure, unadulterated rage.
"GET AWAY FROM HIM!"
No! Aurora, stay back! Run!
I try to stand, but my legs will not obey. I am helpless. The Wudwose, ignoring its bleeding knee, limps toward the sound of her voice. It sees her, a small, defiant shape with a dagger, standing in the open. It chuckles, a wet, gurgling sound, and raises its massive hand to grab her.
I am too far. I am going to watch her die.
She does not run.
She ducks under its clumsy, one-legged lunge and jams her dagger, with both hands, deep into the back of its good leg, severing the tendon.
Her training. She remembered her training. The knee.
The beast roars, a sound of shock and betrayal, and its other leg gives out. It crashes to the ground, falling, and she scrambles away, crab-walking backward, her eyes wide but her teeth bared.
She... she fought. She is Iron Tusk.
The beast is on the ground, roaring, trying to get up, a nine-foot monster reduced to a crippled, crawling thing. I am on my feet. I grab the human sword. This time, I know where to strike.
I stalk forward, ignoring its pathetic, swiping claws. I drive the sword down, through the matted hair, into the soft, unprotected back of its neck, severing its spine.
It shudders. And is still.